


You Know What They Do To Guys Like Us In Prison

by dancinbutterfly



Series: You Know What They Do To Guys Like Us In Prison [1]
Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: Addiction, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Prison, Assassins & Hitmen, Assault, Brothers, Character Death(but its not one of the "Good" guys), Corruption, Crimes & Criminals, Developing Friendships, Doctors & Physicians, Drugs, F/M, Falling In Love, Families of Choice, Family, Forced Prostitution, Gangs, Gen, Hate Crimes, Hospitalization, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Make-up, Multi, Murder, Organized Crime, Past Rape/Non-con, Prison, Prison Gangs, Prison Politics, Prison Sex, Prison guards - Freeform, Psychological Torture, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, References to Drugs, Religion, Sexual Assault, Strained Friendships, Theft, Torture, Violence, lying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-19 11:50:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 50,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/572955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinbutterfly/pseuds/dancinbutterfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Decaydence: that’s what the inmates call the D Block of Janick State Correctional Facility. The Decaydance is full of your garden variety mobsters, gangsters, pimps, drug dealers, crazy cult leaders, murderers, and other dangerous offenders. What people appear to be isn’t necessarily who they are but all that matters is reputation, how they stay alive and where they fall on the Decaydance food chain.<br/><a href="http://s602.photobucket.com/user/MizuC/media/Artwork/prison.jpg.html"></a><img/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I posted this ages ago but I revamped it, separating each POV section into its own chapter. It should be easier to process this way. And if you want the old way, just click "Entire Work" and boom, back to normal. I also included the art that was made with it one [b_dsaint](http://archiveofourown.org/users/b_dsaint) and the other by [sly_fuck](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sly_fck/profile).
> 
> This fic kinda took a village and I have so many amazing people to thank from an evening in February of 09 when I took a shower and came out and said to "I have an idea for a series of vingettes" that turned into this monster" who was there for me since literally the first moment I got the idea, through beta, all the way to the end in every way, [turps](http://archiveofourown.org/users/turps/pseuds/turps) for the encouragement and suggestions on how to make it make sense, [ladyfoxxx](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyfoxxx) for the amazing love and encouragement and for mocking me about Bob and Ryan and "a series of vingettes" that spiralied wildly out of control, **rivlee** and **ohourheartsbeat** for the support and beta, [ariadne83](http://ariadne83.livejournal.com/), and [anoneknewmoose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anoneknewmoose/pseuds/anoneknewmoose), [allyndra](http://archiveofourown.org/users/allyndra) and for all the handholding. Thank you all so much.

**Gerard Way ~ Sentence: 25 years, possibility of parole in 10 ~ Charge: Aggravated Assault and Attempted Murder ~ Convicted: On all charges**

People inside John Janick State Correctional Facility have reputations. It’s pretty much all they have, besides the few personal effects the guards allow through, and prison issue blues. Everyone’s are different, and there tend to be multiple types, depending on which group you talk to. But there are a few that stick out.

Ross is the D-Block whore; contraband makeup masking bruises, sores and hollow eyes. Saporta’s the Charlie Manson; the cold-case whackjob with a cult of kids who brand snakes on their skin. Wentz is the unofficial king of D-Block; the one with dirt on everyone and fucked with by no one. These big slots come with some kind of power, the kind that attracts followers. Granted Ross’ “followers” tend to want to follow him into a corner, slam him face first into the cinderblock and fuck him inside out, but still. Characters like them draw crowds. 

Gerard Way’s a little bit different. 

“I heard he fucking mauled a guy;” is the direction conversations tend to turn when Gerard walks past. 

“I heard it was a Satanic ritual. Crazy fuck thinks he’s a demon or something.” 

“No, man, fucker thinks he’s a goddamn vampire,” someone always corrects. Usually it’s one of the guys who was still on the outside when Gerard got arrested – a guy who saw the video clips sold by some witness at the same bar for a bachelor party to CNN. The clips of Gerard with his eyes drug-wild and his mouth smeared with blood. He’d been headline news on every 24-hour news channel in the country for almost two weeks. Cable news anchors love a monster.

Vampire or demon, what people know is that Gerard lost his shit one night and tried to rip a drinking partner’s throat out. Using only his teeth. And he almost succeeded. 

For a slight guy, he generates an impressive amount of fear. That kind of violence isn’t standard and it’s unpredictable. There’s no good defense against an animal that could go for your throat at any second, then lick your blood off his lips when he’s done. Inmates and guards alike tend to give him a wide berth. Even guys who could and would beat him in a fair fight – guys six and a half feet tall with pronounced veins that stand out against thick chords of muscle – give him an extra inch or two when he walks by. 

That works fine for Gerard. Most of his time out of his cell is spent in the prison chapel anyway. He burns hours on his knees, sliding rosary beads between his fingers as he says countless Hail Marys or drawing religious iconography dripping with gore with short stubby pencils. Everyone, from Warden Carter down to the trustee that cleans the toilets, just chalks it up to Gerard Way: Resident Psycho.

He went the first three months inside without having a conversation with anyone. Of course when it finally happened, it was with Pete Wentz. 

If anyone knew Pete made first contact, it wouldn’t surprise them. People say he was dropped on his head as a child, because how the hell else do you get that crazy without actually being crazy? Of course they say it quietly, where he can’t hear them. But they say it. 

Pete had strolled into the chapel and dropped down onto the bench next to Gerard. He’d flipped open a copy of the New American Catholic Bible and started paging through it. He’d stopped in Deuteronomy, snickered a little, and then said, apropos of nothing, “So, how’d it taste?”

Gerard had stopped cold at the “Blessed among women” part and turned to look at him. Wentz had sat there with his huge dumb grin full of big teeth that made him look like a braying ass. But he’s got connections with everyone, from the Aryans to Warden Knowles and beyond, out into the real world so Gerard had answered him. “How did what taste?”

“That guy’s blood. Was it like when a nosebleed goes the wrong way or was it different, better?”

Gerard had swallowed hard. He’d shivered and shrugged his shoulders as if, if he shook himself hard enough, he could get the memory off. “I don’t know.”

Pete had laughed, loud and jarring. It’d made Gerard smile back a little. “You’re a fucking liar on top of the whole nutjob thing.”

“I’m not. It was just… it was blood.” _Hot. Sticky. Wet. Coppery thick_. It had been fucking revolting and completely fascinating at the same time. 

Pete’s knees had bounced a little. “Did you like it?”

What the fuck kind of question was that? Who said shit like that? It was a crazy, random fucking question. It’d also reminded Gerard enough of old conversations with his brother that he’d started to like Pete. 

At the time he had liked it. At the time he’d been so far out of his head on whatever drug he’d been on that there’d been nothing but the screaming rage in his brain and the feel of Matt’s blood pouring down his throat. Gerard had shuddered again. “It’s not that simple.”

Pete had seemed to take that in, humming to himself. “You planning on biting me?”

Gerard had shaken his head. He wasn’t ever going to get that high again. And maybe - if he could say enough Hail Marys, pray hard enough, stay clean long enough - he’d stop wanting to. It’d been working so far and, as much as he wouldn’t have expected it to when he was a rebellious teenager, the prayers actually helped the alcohol cravings.

Pete had beamed at him and clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man. Right, I’m gonna see myself out, but do me a favor will you? I’ll owe you one. And believe me; you want me to owe you one.”

“What?”

“I see you around and I wave or nod to you, you nod back.”

“That’s it?” It’d seemed too easy. Gerard hadn’t had most of the problems other people seemed to have when adjusting to life in Janick but he watched and he listened. He’d known that things were never that simple.

“That’s it. People are freaked out by you, crazyface. You look like you like me, and it makes me scarier by proxy.”

“I can do that.”

“Awesome. Right. Have fun on the Decaydance, Gerard. It’s better if you make the best of it. Trust me.”

“Decaydance?” Gerard had asked. He’d heard the term tossed around but never defined. 

“It’s the D-Block of our dear Janick State Correctional Facility, my new friend. We’re all just killing time in one big rotting, violent, fucked up party. The Decaydance,” Pete had said with a shrug and another of his big, mostly fake smiles at Gerard. “Don’t worry, you fit right in.”

That had been it. It’s been a year since that conversation. Since then his grandmother has died and his brother has gotten fucking married and he’s missed all of it. Instead, Gerard’s gone through a dozen cell mates, all of them scared of him, all bartering and begging to get away from the psycho vampire. 

He feels like Cain, fucking marked, but it gets him left alone and that’s been fine by him. He doesn’t want to get near the drug dealers or the violence or any of it. He just wants to do his time, get better and go home. If he can manage to get forgiven while he’s at it – for what he did to his family and for Matt who still can’t fucking _talk_ – then more’s the fucking better. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Gabriel Saporta ~ Sentence: 75 years, possibility of parole in 35 ~ Charges: Murder in the 2nd Degree, Kidnapping, Possession of Illegal Substances, Unlawful Imprisonment, Conspiracy to commit murder~ Convicted: On all charges**

Gabe is a true believer. Most people aren’t. Most people are crawling in the dirt, lost and terrified. Especially here. So many lost souls, waiting for the Cobra to usher them into the Church of Hot Addiction. 

His people are waiting on the outside, women who obey his whims and men who do his work. He’ll be joining them soon. His lawyers are hard at work, and he has no doubts. Converts will be welcomed with open arms. It’s a new start for the forgotten and discarded he’s found inside.

For now though, Gabe’s content to pick the ripe off of the bars like fruit off of trees. The beautiful ones tend to prefer the Way of the Cobra to the Path of Islam when their desperation gets to be too much, despite the best efforts of the Imam three cells down. 

They fall at his feet. They beg for solace from the Cobra. Ross in particular, kneels in front of him, red-smeared mouth begging for escape from his hell. 

Gabe has taken no small amount of pleasure in using his mouth then turning him away. Ross’s pain is a sacrifice to the Cobra. When Gabe takes him, and he will when the time is right, his slight body will be a vessel for the whole of the Church and a perfect blow against Wentz. 

Until then, Gabe teases the younger man with crumbs of affection and murmurs about the venom of the Cobra’s vengeance. He promises him retribution against Wentz, and McCracken, and all the others who have betrayed him or used him roughly then tossed him aside like a come-filled tissue. 

When Ross cries (which he hardly ever does anymore and more’s the pity) the makeup on his face smears and makes him an abstraction of agonized beauty. Gabe loves to look at it. He’s used Ross’s weakness and openness to him to win favor with the Aryan Brotherhood and the more open-minded Latino and black gang members. He’s pointed so many in Ross’s direction to take what they want when Gabe knew he was trying to rest or get a moment of peace. Seeing the broken pieces of Ross afterwards is almost as much fun as putting them back together in his image. 

“Oh Ryan,” Gabe murmurs afterwards as he strokes his hair, soothing away the mascara-rich tears he helped put there, rubs the drops of come that escaped Ross’s lips into battered skin. “You’re being tested. Come through strong and the Cobra will avenge you.”

He’s caught Wentz glaring at him more than once when he’s doing it. The man’s jaw clenches tight, knowing but not saying anything. He stands with his tattooed arms crossed over his chest and Gabe always smiles at him, wide and open across the room. 

Wentz thinks he has power. He thinks that he has claim to anyone and anything he wants, particularly on D-Block. Gabe knows better. He’s seen how far Wentz’s influence can reach and it’s not far enough to save this one. He’s already tried, and everyone knows how badly he failed. 

“Hurt him any worse,” Wentz hisses, catching Gabe in the cafeteria line, “And I will break you in half.”

Gabe is so much taller than Wentz that he has to tilt his head and look down to meet his gaze. Size doesn’t really matter, but Gabe certainly enjoys it. He smirks because Wentz suspects, but he doesn’t really know anything. “Like you broke Johnson and Klasinski?”

Klasinski and Johnson had brutalized Ross. They’d done it publicly and they’d done it with an industrial sized metal spoon, almost as long as Gabe’s forearm that they’d stolen during kitchen duty.

The spoon had been Gabe’s idea. It’d had just the right level of humiliation and pain and it had been fucking beautiful. He’d watched most of it through a window, walking away when Ross lost consciousness. It wasn’t any fun when Ross wasn’t awake to feel it. 

By the time Wentz and the hacks had gotten to him the damage had been done. Ross had ended up in St. Jude’s ICU for almost a month; then the infirmary for more than a week. When he’d come back – with a limp and empty eyes – and found his two attackers still alive, he’d cut the last of his ties to Wentz just like Gabe had been counting on.

Then all that was left was pieces, and they were free for Gabe to scoop up. Gabe has most of them now, most of Ross. He just needs to break a little more before he can get all of him. 

Gabe expected Wentz to flinch at that. Instead he folds his arms over his chest and returns the smirk. 

“I’ve got Klasinski’s balls in a jar and he’ll never be able to hold a fork again and Johnson…” Pete smiles, all teeth. “Ask Johnson about his johnson sometime. You didn’t notice how different he’s been moving since he got back from the infirmary a couple months ago? We had to be patient with that one. Precision takes time, you know. Besides, death’s instant. Pain can last forever.”

Gabe glances over at Klasinski, across the cafeteria with his fellow Aryans. He’s eating slowly, with fingers crooked and mangled and still swollen, even though it’s been ages since he was found with his hands mutilated. Johnson is in a back corner, at the end of the nearly empty table except for the vampire seated at the far end. Both Klasinski and Johnson have a broken, defeated slump to their shoulders and a slack look in their eyes. Wentz must have taken his time to get his retribution. 

He missed that somehow in the years since he unleashed his influence on Ross. The slip makes his palms sweat, just the slightest bit. He looks back at Wentz who is still smiling, the arrogant prick. 

“Just because he doesn’t want my protection anymore doesn’t mean I don’t give it. You do not want me to call in my favors against you. You’re going to be here a lot longer than we are and what it would cost you to stand against us is more than you want to lose. I know what you’re doing to him and you’re going to stop.” He gets bigger somehow. Inflates almost. It’s strange and Gabe’s only ever seen Wentz manage it. “Do you under-fucking-stand me?”

“He’s not yours anymore, Wentz,” Gabe purrs, gathering his wits back. “He wants to give himself to the Cobra. You have no right to deny him that.”

Wentz shakes his head. “Wrong. He’s always going to be one of mine and I’m not great with sharing. Especially not with people like you, who just can’t have nice things.”

Gabe just smiles at him. He has no idea what hold Gabe has; the power he has over everything. There’s more than one way to get something, and he always gets what he wants. “Always a pleasure, Wentz.”

“I’m serious. Ryan is mine, the Decaydance is mine and if you keep fucking with either of them you’ll regret it. ”

“I’m sure. Now if you don’t mind.” He pushes bodily past Wentz, “It’s Sloppy Joe day. The Cobra only sends such a blessing so often.”

“Psycho,” Pete mutters, letting him pass and falling back with his pets, the eco-terrorist and the drug dealer. They draw in tight around him and cast worried looks at each other.

Gabe watches him go then turns to look at Ross, sitting huddled between Bill and Novarro. He’s reapplying his lipstick by feel, his gaze locked on his empty plate. His other hand is under the table, working slowly in Novarro’s lap.

He glances up at Gabe, as if drawn to look by an outside force. Gabe smiles and Ross smiles back, his whole face lighting from the inside, bright yet shattered, and beside him, Novarro shudders. Gabe feels a rush of satisfaction at the sight and knows that no matter what Wentz threatens, he’s already won. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Frank Iero Jr. ~ Sentence: 10 years, possibility of parole in 3 ~ Charges: Blackmail, Bookmaking, Conspiracy to commit murder, Racketeering, Receiving stolen goods. ~ Convicted: Bookmaking, Receiving stolen goods.**

Frank’s on his first tour of the state’s correctional facilities. He’s not exactly psyched about the prospect. Who the fuck would be? Not Frank, who’s got a fucking amazing fiancée he loves. Jamia really doesn’t deserve this shit, especially not on top of all the other crap she puts up with from him. It’s just that he’s not too crushed about the prospect either. The Family’s got half the parole board in its pockets, so he won’t be here too long. 

Besides, Frank can tough out anything for three years – including the not getting laid part. He made it through high school, didn’t he? There’s honestly no way this can be worse. After all, he didn’t have the force and fury of the Family to back him up against Joey O’Neill’s bullying in 9th grade. 

He knows he’s lucky. Doing time’s a badge of loyalty in his line of work and he’s got the comfort of knowing going in that he’s fairly safe. You fuck with one member of the Family, you fuck with everyone. He’s got about a dozen cousins, and Bob, and a handful of uncles in with him and more than half of them are on D-Block too. It’s a fucking Iero family reunion in this bitch. 

Actually, it’s a lot like that scene in _Goodfellas_ except without the cooking; things aren’t the same as they were in the 60’s after all. His father is the head of the Iero Family and Frank’s been groomed to take his place since he was baptized. There’s a lot of security in his position. 

Frank has always known where he was heading and exactly where his loyalties lay. Getting busted and going down for the Family’s practically a rite of passage. Although he’s sure he never would’ve ended up in here if Bob hadn’t gotten put away six months before his arrest. So he’ll do his time quietly and easily and get back to business.

He just wishes he got to share a cell with Bob instead of this crazy fairy kid Ross he’s been paired up with. Unlike a lot of people in his line of work, Frank’s got nothing against gay people. He’s all for gay rights and he’s got gay friends, hell Bob goes both ways and Bob’s his favorite. But seriously, who the fuck wears glitter in prison? Apparently, Ryan Ross.

It’s the most off-putting first impression Frank’s ever had. The standard issue denims and white t-shirt are a size too small on Ross, stretched tight over his willowy frame and strategically cut in places to up the whole slut vibe. His hair’s long, down to his chin, and he’s wearing a lot of makeup. Really, a fucking lot. 

Ross wears so much that it’s less like makeup really, and more like a kid painting his face at a carnival. Black glittery swirls crawl across his forehead and eyes, and down to his chin where they accentuate a mouth that’s covered in bright red, slightly smudged lipstick. Frank can see the bruises underneath it all and it makes his stomach do an unpleasant flip.

Ross gives him an appraising look head to toe when he arrives and finds Frank in his space, then sighs. “Ryan Ross,” he says, not holding out his hand. Frank notices that his fingernails are painted a purple so dark, it’s almost black. 

“Frank Iero.”

“Welcome to the Decaydance, Frank. You dump your shit in here.” He kicks one of two metal lockers with no locks that are under the bottom bunk. “And if you want to fuck me, give me a little heads up all right? I don’t like it raw.”

Frank blinks at him, at a loss for words for possibly the first time ever. “I’m straight.”

Ross snorts at that and flops down onto his bunk. It’s the bottom one. “Yeah, I’m sure you are. Still, at least five minutes heads up if you want my ass, all right? Give me the common fucking courtesy of time to grab my lube, that’s all I’m asking.”

Frank sputters, opening and closing his mouth a few times, before finding his voice. “I don’t plan on fucking you.”

“Right. I know,” Ross agrees lightly. “That’s why I’m asking for a little heads up when the mood does strike you. You know, I can only fit so much in my pockets. ”

“No, I mean ever.” He loves Jamia. Even if he did swing that way too, he wouldn’t cheat on her. It’s a principle thing. Plus, his old man cheated and it put him off the whole institution. 

Ross hums a little, clearly not paying any attention to the conversation anymore, which is just weird. Frank isn’t sure what to say what to do. It’s the first thing he’s encountered so far – from his arrest to arrival at Janick State Correctional – that he has no idea how to handle. 

Ross, Ryan as Frank starts to think of him pretty quickly, stumbles back at lockdown most nights tired and bowlegged. On good nights he comes back clean but fucked out and exhausted. Most nights he comes back filthy but in one piece, with flaking come in his hair or on his shirt and pants. On bad nights his limp is more pronounced and he staggers in, trying to hide the fact that he’s bleeding. On the worst nights, he doesn’t come back at all and Frank stares at the ceiling wondering where the guards are going to find him this time. 

Frank just doesn’t get it. There’s a code. Yeah, sometimes you have to hurt a guy to get what you need, or get rid of someone who crosses the line. But there’s a right way to do things, to conduct business, and what’s happening to Ryan isn’t it. Hell, he treats his dogs better than most people treat Ryan.

He tries to say something. He tries every time Ryan hobbles back to their cell. Ryan won’t talk about it. He shrugs it off or he talks about the good parts – how Carden got him a new color eye shadow somehow or how McCoy likes to fuck slowly enough that on a good day Ryan can actually get off with him. Frank listens because the new bruises make him feel so goddamn guilty that he can’t do anything else. 

It’s different after they find Ryan on the floor of the showers. He was naked and unconscious and covered in blood and fluids. Somebody ripped a showerhead off the wall and used the piping to beat him and– 

Frank didn’t find him. So he doesn’t have to have that image in his head. He doesn’t have to, but it’s there anyway. 

Even here that kind of brutality is a little beyond Frank’s comprehension. The general consensus on the Block is that Chris Gutierrez did it. Frank’s only ever brushed past him, he can’t imagine him doing that. But, the guy is an ex-associate of Wentz’s and everyone knows that the best way to attack Wentz is to go through his people. 

No one knows for sure, because Ryan’s in no condition to talk. He’s still not much better days later, when Schechter half-carries Ryan from the infirmary to the cell. 

Schechter’s one of the better correctional officers on the Block. He’s hard but fair. Frank can respect that, even if he doesn’t like having to deal with any COs. Pretty much everyone respects Schechter. 

“Look after him?” Schechter asks. It clearly pains him to do so. Not, Frank realizes, not because he’s asking a prisoner for help but because he’s clearly been finding broken pieces of Ryan for awhile now. 

“I’ll try, but it hasn’t done shit so far.”

Schechter nods and sighs. “We don’t have any names,” he adds, as Ryan curls up on his bunk. “He won’t give us a fucking name so we can’t-“

Frank watches Schechter exhale hard through his nostrils and clench his fists. He’s got a club hanging from his belt – no guns allowed on the Block – and he looks ready to grab for it. It’s weird, the way Schechter is talking to him like they’re equals or something. Like Schechter couldn’t beat him bloody and get away with it if Frank breathes wrong.

“You could move him to a new cellblock,” Frank mutters. “Or something.”

“It won’t change anything.” Schechter sighs rubbing his face with his hands. He’s got tattoos on his fingers that Frank never noticed before. “His reputation’s traveled already. Guys from B and C Block have gotten their hands on him a few times in the yard already. Aside from releasing him or putting him in protective custody for the next few years, there’s nothing administrative that would really help. So just… he’s got permission to stay in his cell for the next few days.” Schechter’s blue eyes meet his, steady and level and seeing right through Frank. “I know who you are Iero. Don’t let anyone touch him for a few days. Make that happen and let me know what you need.”

“Bryar,” Frank says. “I need you to move Bryar closer.”

Schechter frowns and Frank suddenly remembers that this is _the guy_. This is the hack Bob was friends with before he came to the Family, which means he knows what Bob can do. So Frank doesn’t understand why Brian shakes his head. 

“Knowles isn’t going to like that. He’s not a fan of your Family.”

“Too fucking bad. You asked what I need, I told you.” Bob’s his muscle. His father hired Bob when Frank turned eighteen and it became apparent that working in the business wasn’t going to make him magically taller or broader or generally bigger. Bob’s been watching his back ever since. He’s incredibly fucking good. Bob’s a natural like Frank’s never going to be, but he’s always been more about the business side of things anyway. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” Schechter says and then walks away. Frank drops to the floor, which is disgusting but he can’t climb back up right then. Without makeup and sleeping, Ryan looks all of twelve years old. He’s like a battered puppy and Frank’s always had a weakness for puppies. It makes Frank hurt.

But eight hours later Bob moves into the cell next door, the one with the crazy vampire guy who doesn’t talk to anybody. Turns out his cellmate was more than happy to trade and Frank feels about a thousand times more relaxed. Bob’s not hugely tall or anything but he’s strong, he’s fast, he’s smart and he’s skilled. Generally, Bob is awesome and more importantly, he knows how to fix things. 

Bob steps into the cell and looks down at Ryan, who is thankfully still asleep. Frank stands next to Bob and sighs. “Not what you were expecting, huh?”

Bob just shrugs. “Nothing with you ever is, boss.”

“Fuck you,” Frank laughs, feeling strained but better all of a sudden. Bob’s here and they’ve got this shit. 

“Fuck you back,” Bob replies with a small smile. Then he sighs at Ryan. “You and your fucking strays. Christ.”

Frank bumps him in the arm with his shoulder. “You miss Peppers already and you know it.” He tries for joking but it comes out a little cracked.

Bob being Bob doesn’t acknowledge the break. He just nods. “Sure, boss. Whatever you say.”

“Damn skippy,” Frank agrees. “Watch him for me?”

Bob nods but stops Frank before he can go. “Are we going to take care of Gutierrez?”

“I have to talk to Wentz. I’ll get back to you.” Frank sighs and runs his tattooed fingers through his short hair; still blond from the last time he bleached it but starting to grow out after months without access to dye, and then says, “Probably. Probably, so do what you need to do, but sit on it. When it’s time to move I’ll let you know.”

“I’m always ready, boss.”

He leaves Bob with Ryan to meet with Wentz. He finds him in the library. Their conversation is quiet and brief, but still manages to leave Frank feeling deeply unsettled. There’s history here, dark and ugly, and Pete’s brand of justice deals in pain rather than the quick, clean deaths the Family prefers. As much as Frank would like to not get involved, he can’t step back from this. 

Wentz has connections to everyone except the Cobras and the Aryans and can move anything into Janick. Retaliating against Gutierrez just cements a tie for the Italians. It’s a smart move, but mostly it satisfies Frank’s sense of justice. He can’t fix it all, but doing it Wentz’s way is a show of good faith that will still help him make his mark here. 

Frank doesn’t ask questions. He just looks at Bob and says handle it and knows it will be done. Two days later Bob disappears with Frank’s cousin Johnny for a few hours and comes back looking exactly the same, except that Johnny’s hair is wet from a shower and there’s blood in the beds of Bob’s fingernails. 

Ryan doesn’t say anything when he hears how the hacks find Gutierrez in the gym but then, Frank’s not expecting him to. He hasn’t gotten out of bed to do more than limp to the other side of the cell to use the toilet. He just makes a little noise and rolls to face the wall. 

It’s not until Frank’s waiting in line at the pay phones to call Jamia that it hits him. She takes his collect call and she sounds so happy, so sane, such a huge contrast to where he is and what’s going on. It’s too much to deal with. He’s just grateful that she’s on the other end of the line to murmur that she loves him when he cries. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Brian Schechter ~ Janick State Correctional Facility, Staff: Senior Corrections Officer**

There is not enough coffee on the planet to deal with this. There’s just not. There’s brain on the bottom of his boot for fuck’s sake. Brian feels compelled to tell someone this. “There’s brain on the bottom of my shoe, Ray.”

Father Ray Toro doesn’t look up from his book. “No, there’s not.”

“Yes,” Brian puts his foot up on the break room table. The blood from the pool around Chris Gutierrez is mostly gone but he’s pretty sure there’s congealed blood mixed in with the clumpy probably-brains in the grooves of his sole. “There is.”

Ray’s eyes flick up and he sighs. He shakes his head and moves his coffee cup three inches to the left, away from the shoe. “I’m pretty sure that’s leftover mashed potatoes from that fight at lunch.”

Brian knows Ray is probably right. It’s probably not actually brain matter. But he’d had to stick around while Greta had tried to put Gutierrez’s skull back together as well as she could before shipping him out to St. Jude’s and he’s pissed off. The incidents of violence have been increasing lately. 

He blames Craig. None of this shit would’ve happened if he hadn’t had to go take care of his mother and leave D-Block without an active unit head. Or if fucking Frank Iero Jr. could’ve kept his nose clean. Hell, if Brian had listened to his gut and gotten a job waiting tables instead of going into corrections he wouldn’t have to deal with this at all. 

“They don’t pay me enough for this shit.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

This is Ray’s default setting – helpful. Brian doesn’t know if it’s a priest thing or a shrink thing or a Ray thing but it’s almost irritating. Brian lights a cigarette and Ray sighs, a little wistful.

“Depends. Are you asking me as a therapist, priest, or friend?”

“Friend, but you can invoke confidentiality.” Ray picks at the edge of his Styrofoam coffee cup. “You want to. I can tell.” He smiles his dopey lopsided smile. “That’s all three.”

Brian smokes in silence for a moment. He doesn’t have time to draw this out or dick around. He’s only on break for another thirty minutes and he doesn’t have time to dick around. “You can’t tell Jay.”

“I can’t tell Jay because it’ll upset him?” Ray asks and when Brian shakes his head, his face shifts. It’s the Father Dr. Toro face, the non-judgmental one, the one who knows that if he talks to Jay about any of this it’ll be Brian’s job because as likeable as he is, Jay is the fucking warden. His eyes are still his friend Ray though.

“I convinced Jay to get Bryar moved from B to D.”

“Yeah, I heard. I know the Ross situation gets to you but that was a little out of character.” Ray doesn’t need to say that it gets to him too. They’ve both been at Janick long enough to know that there’s only so much you can do, especially when an inmate doesn’t want help. 

“I think Bryar did it. Gutierrez.” Brian rubs the side of his neck. “I’m pretty sure and I moved him to D where he could.” 

He knew, when Iero had asked him to get Bryar moved, what would probably happen. He likes to think that it had been a preventative move but who the fuck is he kidding? Pretty much just himself. 

Brian’s fairly good at kidding himself. It’s surprisingly easy to forget who he is, where he comes from. He manages not to think about it, most of the time. He forgets about being sixteen and tearing shit up around Chicago, a drop-out runaway thrilled to be the fuck out of Michigan, ready to just start living. He forgets breaking into houses, getting high, and stealing cars; then fucking around with Bob Bryar in the back of them. 

On an average day, Brian blocks out how fast everything fell apart. He doesn’t think about how Bob had taken care of thingsbefore Brian got the fuck out of the scene, most days, even if his brother’s stupid laughing face never ever goes away, not for a second. With Bob on B-Block, Brian had been able to ignore it. It was ancient fucking history and Brian’s honestly surprised that Bob never got busted earlier.

He just- This is different. This is another of his prisoners hurt on his watch, only this time he’s pretty sure it’s his fault. “It’s his style,” Brian says finally. “He’s kind of big on cosmic justice. He doesn’t call it that. He doesn’t call it anything. He just fucking does it.”

“Cosmic justice,” Ray repeats. “Like an eye for an eye.”

“Yeah only more like, punishment fitting the crime, if there is one.” He doesn’t think about bullets. He doesn’t think about blood even though it’s on his fucking shoes. It’s not the same. “If it’d been anything else, anything but a pipe, I’d figure it was Wentz. His style you know – leave them broken not dead. But the balance, that’s not Wentz.” 

“And it bothers you.”

Brian sighs and shakes his head. Chris fucking Gutierrez is slime and what he did to Ross fucking disgusting. Brian has seen a lot of disgusting things, many of them done to Ross in particular, so he knows. “It doesn’t.”

Ray doesn’t even blink. He just nods a little. “Does the fact that you don’t have a problem with what he did upset you?”

Professionally, it does bother him. Absolutely it does. He’s a good guard and he takes his job seriously. It’s all about protection. He protects the people on the outside from the inmates by keeping them in check inside, and protects his inmates from the horrible fucked up shit the system encourages them to do to each other. 

Brian only did eight months in juvie when he was a kid. It wasn’t enough to get him to stop – that came later – but it was enough to make him want to make things better. Usually, he thinks he does an okay job of that. 

So he can honestly say that it bothers him that the beating was allowed to happen. Someone called in an ask or bribed one of his coworkers or something on his watch. He’s fucking angry about that, but that’s where it ends. 

Nothing else bothers him. It’s nothing like anger or frustration. It’s all old shit, like admiration and exhaustion and resignation. “What he did when we were younger, it’s part of what got me out.” Brian makes a vague gesture. “This shit. The other side of the bars. I don’t think I’d’ve been able to walk away if it wasn’t for what he did.”

“Having gratitude issues then?” Ray asks. “Those can be hard enough without throwing in the prisoner/CO dynamic to make things more complicated.”

Brian shrugs. He’s still got about 15 minutes left on his break but he’s got paperwork to fill out, incident reports about Gutierrez. He doesn’t have time to work this out properly. “Maybe.”

“Hmm.”

“That’s it? Years of post-graduate education and the power of God Almighty and all you’ve got for me is ‘hmm’? In-fucking-sufficient, Toro.”

“What can I say?” Ray asks, eyes bright with amusement. “Sometimes I need to stew on things. Do you think it goes beyond gratitude?”

“We were friends,” Brian sighs. “And okay, more,” he says quickly, feeling guilty just admitting that to Ray. The collar at his throat doesn’t ever disappear, even when he’s in street clothes. Ray just nods at him to continue. “When it ended, we were friends. Always that. And I owe him.”

“What do you think you owe him?”

There’s absolutely no _think_ about it. He does owe Bob. He owes him so fucking much that having Bob this close scares the shit out of him. Because when Bob asks, Brian’s going to give. “A life.”

Ray reacts, really reacts for the first time since the conversation started. He frowns and reaches across the table, concerned. “Brian.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s old news. Like you said, it’s just getting to me.”

“That’s a pretty big get, Brian. Did something-”

“Come on, man, of course something happened.”

“Is this about your brother?”

Brian sometimes regrets telling Ray things. The guy’s got, like, a million degrees, and he’s been kicking around Janick since before he finished his first one; but really, the priest thing, it’s a total trap. Brian’s been falling for it over and over since day one. “Don’t, all right? I’m talking to my friend here.”

“Yeah, and as your friend I’m asking if this has anything to do with his death. You know the way you never talk about him isn’t healthy, and if this is triggering old issues about what happened then-”

“As your friend, I’m telling you to leave it be.”

Ray sighs heavily. “Are you going to be okay? Because if you need to move to B or Psych or Solitary, I’ll sign off on the request before you give it to Jay.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ve got to get back,” Brian says, standing. He drops his cigarette in his cup, making it hiss and ruining what wasn’t very good coffee to begin with. “I’ve still got three hours before I can go home.”

“You shouldn’t keep pulling doubles, dude. It’s starting to show.” Ray waves in the general direction of Brian’s eyes. “Those aren’t bags; it’s a full set of luggage.”

“Judge not, Ray.”

“Don’t quote Christ to me, sir, you know I’ll win.”

“That’s why I do it. I like it when you bring out the big verse.”

Ray laughs at that. “You hate it.”

He does but he likes where Ray’s coming from. He’s a good guy, probably the best friend Brian’s got. It’s just that sometimes, Brian wishes he could have a normal best friend and that the answer to “how was your day” never includes “and then I almost slipped in a pool of human blood” like it would today. 

Today also facilitates the far less grim, but equally unpleasant question, “You going to the hospital later?” It just makes Ray sigh. Brian wouldn’t trade jobs with him for all the payoff Ray’s got coming to him in the afterlife. 

“Yeah, I have to. I mean, someone’s got to be there just in case.”

In case the beating Bob gave Gutierrez kills him and someone needs to perform Last Rites or whatever he may need. Brian doesn’t know if Gutierrez is Catholic or not but it doesn’t matter to Ray. Besides, it won’t be needed. If Bob had wanted Gutierrez to die, he’d be dead. That’s all there is to it. 

“I’ve got to get back to the Decaydance,” Brian sighs, glancing at his watch. Lockdown’s going into effect soon and lights out isn’t for a few hours. He wants to get as much of the incident report for Gutierrez’s assault done before then. He hates writing in the near dark of lights out and he definitely doesn’t intend to stay after his shift ends if he can help it. He’s got blood under his fingernails still and all he wants is to get in the shower. 

“I like that name,” Ray says with a small smile. “It’s good that there’s still a sense of imagination among the inmates. Even if it is Wentz’s doing.”

“He’s infectious,” Brian points out. It’s not a positive. Wentz is the new wave of criminal. He’s the youngest self-made crime lord in US history, with reaches into government organizations and throughout the city before he was old enough to vote. The charges the Feds convicted him on are petty compared to the alleged reality. 

What Brian knows, through the snippets of conversations he hears on patrol but can’t prove, is that Wentz also has dirt on half the parole board and another quarter in his pocket. When his time comes, he’s going to walk out and pick up where he left off. It bothers Brian a lot less than the prospect of Gabe Saporta doing the same. 

“He is,” Ray agrees with a tired smile. “I’ll probably be headed back to the rectory before you get off tonight, so call me if you need anything.”

“Just a beer,” Brian says with a wistful sigh. At Ray’s flinch, Brian holds up both palms. “It’s a joke.” 

“Brian.” Ray sounds pained. 

He hates that Ray takes his sobriety so personally. Maybe if he’d hit his rock bottom somewhere other than in the back seat of Ray’s car, he wouldn’t be so touchy. “It’s a joke, Ray, all right? Jesus Christ.”

“Blasphemy,” Ray warns, not a hint of amusement in his voice. Cursing doesn’t faze him but the guy takes the Commandments seriously, including the Lord’s name in vain one. Especially that one, for some reason. 

Brian thinks it’s because Ray can actually enforce it. So he makes apologetic noises. “Sorry, man. But I’m leaving on time tonight so I can hit a meeting before I pass out.”

“You should.” Ray’s smile is thin but sincere. It’s enough that Brian feels comfortable leaving the break room without worrying. They’re fine. Things are fucked up. Of course, that’s not saying much. Fucked up is SOP for Janick but not between him and Ray. They’re fine and Brian’s in no rush to find something wrong between them. He’s got enough of his own shit to work out.

Ray’s still on the brain because Brian hits the chapel first, before making his way back to D-Block, just in case. He finds Gerard Way in the second pew from the front, his feet on the wooden bench, knees almost up to his chin. There’s a drawing paper pad that’s not contraband, but certainly isn’t prison issue, resting on his kneecaps. The only sound in the room is of a golf pencil scratching over the thick paper. 

The cross on his rosary is between his lips and he’s mumbling to himself. Brian clears his throat. The man’s a violent offender and fairly well known for being erratic. In fact, most of the staff is still wondering why Ray doesn’t ship him off to the Psych Unit. Brian knows better than to sneak up on someone like that.

Way blinks and looks up, then smiles, bright and stunned, the cross falling into his lap. It’s surprising, and Brian doesn’t know what to do for a second. He can’t remember the last time an inmate smiled at him. He thinks it was Ross, thin and strained and passing off another trip to the infirmary as no big deal. Way’s smile is nothing like that. It’s fucking light.

“Officer Schechter, hi. What’s up?”

So fucking much. It’s on the tip of Brian’s tongue to start talking. Way’s face is an earnest invitation but he knows better. He knows where the line is. “You know lockdown’s in twenty minutes?”

Way nods. “Yeah. I was just trying to finish the concept sketches before I headed back to my cell.” To clarify, he holds up his pad. 

The drawing is an intricate series of lines that come together to form a twisted version of the altar. Only instead of the bare reality, there’s something on it, something with what could be wings but that might be spikes. He’s not sure but it makes him shiver a little. “That’s pretty good.”

“I used to be an artist,” Way says, looking down at the pad. There’s no small amount of pride in his voice and sadness too. When he looks up, there’s another smile, all the way up to his eyes and sincere in a way that doesn’t fucking connect with the image of the psycho vampire of D-Block. 

It’s incongruous and Brian’s gut tells him there’s something off about the man in front of him and the reputation that’s preceded him the last year and a half he’s been here. His instincts are rarely wrong. 

He puts _read Way’s file_ on his long list of things to do and jerks his head at the door. “Head on back for me. Last thing I need’s for you to miss lockdown and get thrown in the hole.”

Way sighs and frowns but doesn’t protest. Brian knows he’s never been sent to Ad Seg before and he doesn’t seem to want to start now. He climbs to his feet, tucking his pencil behind his ear and gathering up his rosary. He puts the pad under his arm and grins again. “I’m glad you like it. Remind me to show it to you when I finish.”

Before Brian can answer, Way’s leaving, walking obediently out of the chapel. Brian watches him go for a moment before following. The sound of footsteps on the linoleum is a rhythm that helps Brian reset his brain for the rest of the shift. There’s still time before lockdown, after all. Just because Gerard Way is cooperative, doesn’t mean the rest of the men on the Decaydance will be. He puts himself back on guard well before he reaches the D-Block and readies himself for the rest of the night. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Patrick Stumph ~ Sentence: 15 years, possibility of parole in 3 ~ Charges: 3 counts of Vehicular Manslaughter ~ Convicted: On all charges**

This isn’t how his life was supposed to work out. That’s what Patrick keeps thinking as he walks through the halls of the D-Block to his new cell. The plan was graduate college, maybe go to grad school and try to make music. Then the wreck happened on the way home from graduation and now he’ll be doing any grad school from behind bars.

Fucking cold weather, fucking icy roads, fucking bad breaks, fucking fuck his luck and his life. He wasn’t supposed to be here, not over an accident and a freaking machine malfunction. He‘d been sober and scared and he’d tried. He’d tried so hard to keep the car on the road and just failed. 

He’d managed to hold off his panic in front of his parents. He hadn’t wanted to worry them. They’re going broke on attorney fees and they’re upset enough. Hell, everyone is. Even the jury at his trial hadn’t expected the sentence he got. 

It was, after all, an accident. He’d been driving home from graduating a semester late in December instead of May, hit a patch of black ice and lost control. His car had spun over the frozen asphalt and slammed into a sedan with a family of six in it. The father, who was apparently a minister on top of everything, and the two youngest kids, Nick and Frank, were killed. Patrick ended up with a fractured collarbone and his arm broken in three places. He finished with rehab just in time for the fucking judge running for re-election to throw the book at him. 

But now? In a prison uniform being walked to his cell by a prison guard? The panic is rising, thick and black in his throat. It’s so fucking real that Patrick is afraid he’s going to cry. He’s seen enough episodes of _Oz_ to know that he’s fucked if he cries. He’s fucked anyway, but he’d be extra fucked.

The guard stops in front of a cell and raps on the door with his fist. “Yo, Wentz, new meat.” 

Patrick holds his breath. Who the fuck knows what he’s going to end up with. He hopes to Christ it’s not some big guy named Mouse or Killer who’s going to make him his bitch. It’s the only mercy he really cares about. 

There’s a laugh from inside the cell, loud and a little obnoxious. “Steak this time, Schechter. I’m tired of that ground beef shit you keep throwing in my direction.” 

“You take what I give you and like it, fucker,” Schechter calls back.

The man who comes to the door of the cell is nothing like what Patrick was expecting. He’s only a couple inches taller than Patrick and only a few years older, a young good looking guy with dark skin and black hair cut short. 

“Bossy bossy,” Wentz murmurs, giving Patrick a blatantly appraising look from head to toe. Then he smiles and Patrick might gasp a little. “I’ll let it slide this time since you brought me pretties.” 

Patrick swallows hard. Beside him, the guard, Schechter, goes stiff and his jaw clenches. “Try and do a better job with this one than you did with Ross.”

Wentz’s whole face changes at that. His eyes go cold and muscles Patrick hadn’t noticed before tighten. Patrick doesn’t know who Ross is but whoever he is and whatever happened, it’s not good. “No disrespect, Schechter, but you have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.”

“I know that they found Gutierrez in the gym yesterday. Someone beat him with a pipe so hard they found grey matter on the floor. They transported him to St. Jude’s ICU. What do you think about that?”

Pete smiles, all teeth and they remind Patrick of the rows of white in the shark mouth out of _Jaws._ “I think that’s karma.”

Schechter takes that in and Patrick is sure that he’s going to do something to this guy. Drag him to solitary, cold clock him, he doesn’t know, but something. Instead he just gives a curt nod. “Watch out for this one, Wentz. If he gets lost like Ross, I’ll make your life very fucking unpleasant.”

“You could just call in a favor,” Wentz says. “You’ve got a few. Three at last count.”

Schechter says nothing. He just makes an annoyed noise and walks away, leaving Patrick alone with Wentz. As soon as Schechter is gone, Wentz beams at him, childish almost, and holds out a hand. “Pete Wentz. Don’t mind Schechter. He’s not half bad for a CO. Best we’ve got”

Patrick shakes his hand and means to introduce himself but what comes out is, “Who’s Ross? What happened to him?”

Pete blinks and deftly ignores the question. “That’s not your name. What’s your name?”

“Oh. Uh, Patrick, Patrick Stumph.”

“Well, Patrick, Patrick Stumph, Ryan Ross is a friend of mine and what happened to him was bad and none of your business. So, you want top or bottom bunk?”

Patrick looks around the room. There are a few pictures on the walls, bits of paper with scrawled writing. “Whichever one isn’t yours.”

“Way to make a snap judgment there, Pattycakes. First lesson – you don’t get too many choices in here, so when someone offers you one, take the chance to make it. Top or bottom?”

“Don’t call me that,” Patrick snaps. Then he licks his lips and sighs. “Top I guess.” He’d feel claustrophobic with someone above him, even though he notices now, the top bed is already made.

Pete grins. “Nice. And, I thought so. You seem like a top. A baby top but definitely a top.” It comes out so fucking dirty that Patrick shies away physically. That just makes Pete laugh.

Patrick watches as Pete pulls the sheets off the top bunk and drags them down to the bottom. “I’m not going to have sex with you,” he blurts as he watches Pete makeup the bottom bunk.

Pete laughs again. “Did I ask you to?”

“Yes? The top and bottom thing. That’s a sex question. You’re not going to make me your bitch or something are you?”

Pete laughs again and falls back on the bunk, grinning at him. “I probably should. You’re what, twelve? And you’ve got a mouth people will hurt you for, but I don’t know. Call me old fashioned, but I like my sexual violence consensual.”

“You’re laughing at me,” Patrick grits out. He wants to hug himself, but settles for folding his arms and glaring.

“With you,” Pete counters. “Don’t blame me because you’re tiny and adorable. We don’t get tiny and adorable on the Decaydance too often. Well, Iero, but he doesn’t count ‘cause he can have you sleeping with the fishes like Luca Brazi.” He sighs. “He’s good people though.”

“I’m not tiny,” Patricks teeth are clenched so hard that his jaw hurts. 

“Yeah you are but don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”

“Maybe I don’t want you to.”

“Yes,” Pete says, sharp and low. “You do. Trust me, Patrick, you want my protection. You want anything and everything I can give you, and you’re going to just roll with whatever I do. Got it?”

Patrick doesn’t at first. It’s a lot to process. He doesn’t realize what he’s dealing with until a few days later, when a huge man with a fucking swastika tattooed on his neck crowds him into the wall between two urinals in a bathroom and makes a grab for his crotch. 

Patrick tries to shove him away but he never took any self-defense as a kid and the guy is twice his size. He doesn’t even budge and he’s breathing hot and rank on Patrick’s neck and _God, oh God_. Patrick’s ready to scream, to panic and beg and do anything to keep this from happening when someone clears their throat. 

“I wouldn’t,” someone Patrick can’t see over Adolph Jr.’s shoulder says. “He’s Wentz’s new pet.”

The neo-Nazi laughs and strokes the side of Patrick’s face. Patrick smacks his hand away and does his best to glare through the debilitating fear. “Like Ross?” the big guy snorts.

There’s a movement and then Patrick is watching as a bearded blond man of average height slams the Aryan giant into the tile. It’s like something out of a movie. “We’re not talking about Ross,” the blond man says, slamming the guy’s face into the wall once, making blood spurt from his nose. “You are not going to talk about Ross again or I’ll pull your tongue out. Right now, we’re talking about how if you fuck with this kid, you fuck with Wentz. And if you fuck with Wentz, you fuck with everyone.”

“The fuck do you care?” Adolph sputters, spraying more blood onto the white walls.

“I care because I’m one of the favors Wentz will call in if you don’t get smart. And I don’t like to waste my energy on racist, white trash pieces of shit like you.”

“Fuck you.” Adolph growls and spits blood in the blond’s direction. 

“See, that was uncalled for,” the blond sighs, then cracks the guy’s skull into the wall with a precision that makes Patrick gasp. The guy’s eyes flutter shut and he drops like the proverbial sack of potatoes. The blond turns to Patrick with a shrug. “You just can’t reason with some people.” Then he crosses the room to Patrick and holds out his hand, pulling Patrick off the wall. “Bob Bryar.”

“Patrick Stumph.”

“I know. Wentz staked his claim on you in a big way your first day. Everyone knows who you are.”

Patrick tries to think about what happened that first day. Yard time. He worked with Pete’s people in the prison post office. Meals. He isn’t sure what exactly happened that would’ve been Pete staking his claim and then he remembers. “He sat on me.”

“And kissed you,” Bob adds. Patrick opens his mouth to say that a peck on the cheek from a stranger is nothing but Bob continues, “During dinner in front of the entire prison. You’re his.”

“Like that Ross guy everyone keeps talking about?” Patrick hasn’t talked to him but he’s seen the guy. He wears a fuckload of makeup to cover sores and bite marks and to detract from the fact that he is, in fact, a he without going to full drag. He’s everything Patrick’s seen in movies and TV and is afraid of becoming.

Bob sighs and shakes his head. “No. It’s before my time but I don’t think Pete claimed Ryan like that.” He says it sadly and Patrick makes a note to ask. “But it doesn’t matter because he’s ours now.”

“You say that like he’s a thing. Like I’m a thing. I’m not a thing. I’m a fucking person.”

“I know that. You know that. Pete knows that, but guys like this fuckhead and his Brotherhood, they don’t. So we do what we can.”

“I’m not going to sit at his fucking feet like a dog or something.”

Bob actually laughs and Patrick’s fists clench. If he hadn’t seen what Bob can do first hand, he might have followed through with the impulse to strike out. “I can’t imagine Wentz wanting you to. He’s not that kind of guy. At least not in public. I can’t speak to his private life.”

“Everyone seems to know who he is,” Patrick mutters, staring down at the massive man on the floor lying in a slowly growing puddle of his own blood. Patrick knows that cameras saw it. There’s one right in the corner, blinking at him accusingly, but no COs are coming. “They’re all scared of him. The fuck kinda guy is that?”

Bob just shrugs. “You’ll have to find out for yourself, kid. Just be glad he likes you.”

“It’s not that simple,” Patrick protests.

Bob just shakes his head and shoves his hands in the pockets of his pants. “Sure it is. You’re not out there anymore. You’re inside. Things are very simple because people are animals. Stick to your group from now on. If you’re alone, there may not be an ally around the corner next time. Wentz’s got enemies who’d love the chance to break you just to spite him. Trust me on this one.”

Bob’s eyes flicker when he says it and Patrick’s mind goes to Ross with his pretty face and dead, dead eyes. He shudders. “Thanks for the tip.”

“Don’t mention it,” Bob says. He fixes Patrick in a steady blue stare. “Seriously. Don’t.”

Patrick nods a little too hard and then follows Bob out of the bathroom. Pete is sitting at a table with Joe, Andy, McCoy and the big one, Dirty, playing cards. He spots Patrick and waves him over, pushing an empty chair out with his foot. 

Glancing back towards Bob, Patrick blinks because he’s gone. He spots him across the room, his hand on Ross’s wrist, pulling him sharply away from one of the taller Cobras. Ross tries to wrench free but Bob leans forward to whisper something to him that makes him go limp.

Patrick looks away, back at the safety of Pete’s table, and goes to sit down. He doesn’t understand any of this, but it doesn’t matter. He’s a quick learner and he’s going to get through this in one piece. Whatever it takes. 


	6. Chapter 6

**William Beckett ~ Sentence: 10 years, possibility of parole in 6 ~ Charges: Assault, 5 counts Contributing to the Delinquency of a Minor, Pandering, Soliciting, Statutory Rape, Unlawful Imprisonment, Human Trafficking ~ Convicted: Assault, Pandering, Unlawful Imprisonment**

There are a few boys on the Decaydance that Bill keeps his eyes on, vulnerable pretty ones mostly. He’s got a keen eye for the human condition when it comes to certain types of people, certain types of weakness, and he can name a handful of them off the top of his head. Pete’s new boy, the little one with the big eyes and pretty mouth who is so far out of his depth that it’s a wonder he hasn’t drowned, is a good example. Ritter is another, but Ritter is one of his boys. He has about half a dozen that Gabe helps him manage because Bill is nothing if not a survivor and a good businessman. 

Just because he’s behind bars doesn’t mean that he’s going to slow down. People have needs. Bill is used to living a certain way and he’s not about to sacrifice that for a little thing like decency. 

But he’s been in the world’s oldest profession long enough to know when you have a real gem – a moneymaker extraordinaire that makes the most seasoned whores stand back and take note. Bill’s run into less than a handful of those in his time and Ross… Well, everyone knows that Ross is the best fuck on the Block, which is more a diamond in the rough but still fairly priceless.

Of course Ross is also more than half ruined, if that last incident with the pipe is anything to go by. The drugs he’s been quietly trading his ass to Jimmy Urine for since his pain meds from the first attack ran out are taking care of the other half. It’s a shame really, because Bill can tell you right now what Ross’ problem is. Well, problems. Well, mistakes. He’s made so very many of them, but the big ones are obvious.

The biggest one was not finding someone to protect him. Not like Wentz had promised, with that equal standing shit. No, people like them, and Bill includes himself in this category, need someone stronger to take care of them if they can’t be the caretaker themselves. The taker and the taken – you have to be one or the other to have anything in this life.

Bill threw in with the Cobras fairly early on. Gabe was easier to manipulate than Wentz and good-looking enough that Bill didn’t mind dropping to his knees every now and then. 

But Ross in particular, should’ve found protection. Not doing so was his Greek Tragedy scale blunder. The boy just has something about him that screams “hurt me.” Being a sadist’s wet dream can be a good thing if you can keep the sadism in check. In here, with these men, keeping that kind of control is a near impossibility.

He gets that. Bill remembers how fast and hard Ross fell from Pete’s new project to the D-Block come dump. It’s been unfortunate but understandable. What Bill can’t for the life of him figure out is why Gabe won’t just claim Ross for the Church of Hot Addiction and be done with it already.

Ross is fucking hard for it. After the spoon incident (which cracks Bill up because he was one of the ones who found the kid afterward and – aside from all the blood and mess – the sight of Ross with a industrial metal cooking spoon sticking out of him like that had been hilarious), he’s been starved for the scraps of affection Gabe tosses him. While Bill finds it fun to watch, it’s not really productive. Then again, Bill isn’t really one for playing with his food, as it were. 

Gabe may be too busy fucking with Ross’s head to be paying attention, but Bill isn’t. He’s noticed the way the fucking Guido heir-apparent and his pet Viking have been slowly and carefully pulling Ryan into their circle even as he slips farther down. It’s a dangerous shift in the caste system of the Decaydance and it makes Bill nervous.

“He’s not ready,” Gabe murmurs when Bill brings it up. They share a cell and the best time to talk to Gabe is always right before he drifts off. He’s most pliant then.

“If he gets any more ready he’s going to be useless,” Bill mutters, lacing his fingers behind his neck. He knows that Jimmy traffics in cocaine and heroin and that the number of times a week that Ryan goes to him has tripled since the pipe incident. “People can only get pushed so far before they’re too broken to be any good.” He’s seen it. He’s pushed boys to it and thrown them away after. He knows. “Trust me, he’s on the edge.”

“He’s not ready to be picked. He’s not ripe yet.” Gabe’s drowsy voice lilts with that special Cobra crazy that Bill finds sexy and infuriating at the same time. Right now, when Gabe isn’t about to fuck the strength of the Cobra into him or whatever, it’s just frustrating. 

“You’re being reckless,” Bill sighs, staring up at the underside of Gabe’s bunk, willing understanding through the thin mattress. “Bryar and Iero are going to take him if you don’t. They’ve formed an alliance with the Wentz camp over this. If you move on him too late it’s going to be a fucking war.”

“It won’t get to that point.”

“Are you kidding me? It’s pretty much at that point all ready.”

“Shut the fuck up, William, and go to sleep,” Gabe grumbles.

“You’re going to lose more than Ross if you’re not careful,” Bill mutters, but Gabe doesn’t answer. A few minutes later Bill can hear the nasal snoring that means that Gabe has started dreaming and sighs. 

It’s not comforting. In fact, it’s a downright problem. Bill is a smart enough man to know when he needs to start exploring other options. Carden’s people have ties to Wentz and his people are far enough out of his inner circle to avoid most of the fallout. Bill knows the Butcher from outside too. 

He’s going to start talking to them, quietly and discretely, tomorrow. He doesn’t want to be in the crossfire if this blows up. Even if it doesn’t reach the breaking point Bill’s expecting, he’s lost Gabe’s ear. And without that, Bill knows it’s time start looking for a way out.


	7. Chapter 7

**Robert Bryar ~ Sentence: 15 years, possibility of parole in 6 ~ Charges: Armed Robbery, Aggravated Assault, Assault with a Dangerous Instrument, Murder in the 1st Degree ~ Convicted: Aggravated Assault**

None of this is what Bob signed up for. He’s done time before and he knows the deal. It was only two years but he’d learned how to keep his head down, do his own time, get out and go back to work. 

Work is guarding Frank, taking care of Frank, and making sure that Frank doesn’t get his fool ass killed so that Frank can go on doing the business side of things. Bob had been surprised in the beginning by just how genuinely fucking talented at the logistical side of things Frank could be, once Bob took care of the extemporaneous bullshit involved. More than that, Frank was a good man – decent, with principles and ethics and honor that Bob admired. Bob’s got loyalty. He owes his life and his living to the Iero Family. Until the day he retires or dies, he’s going to belong to the Family, and that’s the way he wants it. 

Besides, crazy as Frank makes him, he loves the guy. He’s taken a bullet for him. He’s killed for him. However, he did not sign up to take care of a broken down whore with a smart fucking mouth. 

Ryan is difficult. Ryan is obnoxious. Ryan is high as a fucking kite, and has been since Bob moved into the cell next door. Ryan would be beautiful if he weren’t in tiny fucking pieces and unable to see it. Being around him bothers Bob, deep down in his gut. 

He gets why Frank dragged him into this. Frank’s never been the kind of man who can walk away from genuine need – an odd trait for the heir of an organized crime syndicate, but it makes him fair and Bob respects it. Hell, he shares it.

But Ryan’s a different case. He’s not a stray dog with a wounded paw, or a house of girls with a bad boss that Frank can just send him to fix. Ryan’s damaged like nothing Bob’s ever encountered up close before, and protecting him from himself is a full-time fucking job.

“Get your hands off me,” Ryan snarls at him. He tries to wrench his arm out of Bob’s grip as he pulls Ryan away from someone who’s going to break him for what feels like the millionth time in the last few months. 

Ryan looks at him with so much rage that Bob is a little stunned. He’s been pulling Ryan out of could-be hookups for months but he’s never seen Ryan react like this before. Christ, he’s watched Suarez fuck his face in the middle of the yard, and seen Siska fuck him dry over a table in the rec room without Ryan making a peep. 

Yet he tries to help and this is the thanks he gets? Fuck that. His grip tightens on Ryan’s arm from secure to firm. “Walk with me,” Bob says through gritted teeth.

Ryan glares at him, eyes bright for the first time since Bob met him. “Fuck you.” 

“No. Walk.”

Bob counts his deep breaths as they walk past a pair of hacks back to the cells. He nods at them, and they roll their eyes and let him pass. The Family’s got enough sway that he and Frank both have more freedom than the average inmate. 

He drags Ryan into his cell and is surprised to find Gerard still there, curled up in a ball on his bunk, his pencil scratching away in the notebook his brother sent him. Ryan stiffens with fear when he sees him and tries to jerk away again, to run from D-Block’s resident vampire. 

He gets nothing but a sore shoulder as Bob holds his arm and clears his throat. “You mind giving us a minute, Way?”

Gerard looks up, a little stunned by someone speaking to him. Bob doesn’t talk much and neither does Gerard, not directly to Bob anyway, though he does ramble to himself plenty. Either way, it works for them. He’s odd, but harmless. Bob knows the type. He cracked, once, and now he’s paying for it. The guy spends most of his time praying, and the rest of his time drawing or at the prison AA and NA meetings that Father Toro organizes. He’s probably the most decent guy on the Block, after that new kid Pete’s taken a shine to. Gerard nods and gives them a small, nervous smile.

“Sure. Do you uh-” His eyes flick from Ryan to Bob then back to Ryan again. He ducks his head as he climbs to his feet, taking his pencil and notebook with him. “You can, um, you know, use my bunk if you need to. To sit. Or something.”

Bob smiles back but shakes his head. “Don’t worry. We don’t need it.”

“We might,” Ryan snaps, pressing himself to Bob’s side. He’s bony and hard and soft all at once, and Bob wants to shove him away but he can’t make his fingers let go. “Always nice to not have to abuse my knees on the concrete.”

Oh, right, that attitude is fucking why, Bob thinks. He grabs Ryan’s other arm and gives him a sharp shake. “Jesus Christ, would you shut the fuck up already? Fuck.”

“I’m just gonna go. I…There’s… I’m going to go to the chapel,” Gerard mumbles. Bob nods in his general direction but doesn’t look away from Ryan as Gerard slides out. 

“You finally gonna fuck me, Bryar?” Ryan asks, his voice low and throaty. Ryan actually smiles at him and it takes Bob a little aback. He’s never seen it before. It’s like looking at the reflection of a famous painting in a broken mirror. The beauty’s there, but it’s so fractured it’s almost unrecognizable. 

“Stop it,” Bob growls. 

“Why? You’ve been watching me for months. Nobody’s been as patient as you, so go on. Take your turn.” He licks his lips and Bob’s eyes follow the motion involuntarily. It makes him hard and nauseous at the same time. “Take it. You know I’ve got the best mouth in the Block. Best ass, too. I’ve seen you watch them fuck me, and I know you want it. So just take it, fucker. You want to. I can fucking smell it on you.”

For not the first time, Bob is tempted. Ryan is delicate and lovely like a bruised flower. If he were whole, he’d be almost irresistible. As he is, Bob’s first impulse is protect and his second is to soothe, but Ryan’s not welcoming either. 

Then it hits Bob, fairly suddenly, the way Ryan’s talking, the things he’s saying - take me, fuck me. It’s so obvious he can’t believe it took him this long to see it. 

He lets go of Ryan’s arms and steps forward so that they’re breathing the same bit of air, but this time on his terms. He reaches up with his right hand and traces the latest swirl of paint that curls over the newest set of bruises with a feather-light touch. Then he shakes his head, his fingers coming to rest at Ryan’s temple. “No.”

Ryan rears back. “The fuck do you mean, no?”

“No,” Bob says again, smiling a little now. “I’m not taking anything. I don’t want to take from you. People are done taking things from you, Ryan. That’s not what this is about.”

Ryan rolls his shoulders, then rubs at his left upper arm with his right hand. There are finger shaped bruises starting to form where Bob held him, mixing with older yellow-green ones. “If this is some misguided savior attempt you can take that shit and shove it.”

“This isn’t an attempt. This is happening. You’re done, Ryan. You’re not going to do this anymore.”

“Because you say so?”

Bob just shrugs. “Yes. That works. Because I say so.”

Ryan’s eyes widen, then narrow, and Bob waits. “Go on then, Bryar. Make me.”

“No, Ryan. I think it’s time that people stop making you do anything. But if you want to not die, I suggest you listen very carefully to what I’m about to say.”

“Is that a threat?” Ryan asks, his lips quirking upwards. His whole body uncoils, like he welcomes the idea. “You going to do me a favor and end it for me if I don’t heel like a good little bitch?” 

“Don’t call yourself that.”

“Why not?” Ryan asks, the arrogant lilt in his voice needling him so that Bob feels a little like he’s bleeding. “You know what they say: If the condom fits.” He shrugs. “So tell me, you going to do it clean like in the movies, just snap my neck? Or you going to make me suffer? Is that what you like?”

The melodrama of the death wish isn’t exactly surprising. Bob can’t imagine going through half the shit Ryan’s survived on D-Block without getting unhinged. It’s just hard to witness. Also, the way Ryan’s bouncing a little on his toes, is a side effect of whatever he’s high on –possibly coke, Bob hopes to fuck not meth – that’s killing him slow. He knows that Jimmy keeps giving it to him and that’s got to stop too. 

Bob pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m trying to help you here, Ryan, because me and Frank are the last people you need to worry about. You’re going to kill yourself, or one day Saporta or the Aryans or the bikers will get too enthusiastic and do it for you.”

“Not a day too fucking soon,” Ryan mutters bitterly and Bob grabs him then. 

He catches thin, delicate wrists and pulls Ryan to him so that their faces are close together, almost touching. He speaks in a voice that’s almost a whisper, “You may think you want to die, but you don’t want that.”

“Don’t tell me what I want,” Ryan spits back, looking anywhere but into Bob’s eyes. “You don’t know shit about me.”

“I know that if you let yourself end up Saporta’s plaything, it won’t make anything better. You’ll die bloody and ugly and it won’t be quick. He’ll break you first and it’ll probably last for weeks, months if he can manage it. I know men like Saporta. They like to play with people before they kill them.”

Ryan turns away. That, at least, hits home. Nice to know something’s getting through his thick, fluffy head to his brain. 

“He’s not like that.”

“Yes, he is. You don’t want to see it because you’re desperate and I get that. It’s completely understandable but you can’t let it blind you.”

Ryan doesn’t try to pull away. He’s finally realized that if Bob doesn’t want to release him, he’s not going anywhere. He drops his eyes instead and mutters a less than spirited, “Fuck you.”

Bob would smile at the progress if the whole thing wasn’t so fucked. “Hey, stop it for a second and listen to me. You want to live, Ryan. You’re a resourceful guy. You wouldn’t keep letting yourself get hurt like this otherwise.”

“Is that what you think?” Ryan chokes out, finally meeting his gaze and fuck, there are tears in his eyes. Bob’s pulled him out of a fucking gangbang dry eyed but now? Now they’re bright and when he blinks, the tears escape and slide down his face, mixing with his eyeliner and mascara in cloudy streaks. 

Bob lets go of one of Ryan’s wrists and wipes at the blackened tears with his thumb and the backs of his knuckles. “You’re right about me watching. Frank told me to and you know what I saw?”

Ryan shakes his head and tenses like Bob’s going to hit him. Bob can’t imagine that any more than he can imagine hitting a child. Ryan braces himself anyway, like whatever Bob’s going to say could hurt him more than what Gutierrez did to him with that pipe. 

“I saw a man who’s been hurt more than enough, but is still hanging on even though he’s slipping. You look tired to me, Ryan.” Bob brushes away fresh tears and then pushes Ryan’s bangs back off his forehead and out of his eyes, tender and careful. Too many people have been rough with Ryan. He’s not going to be one of them. “Don’t you want to rest?”

“Yes,” Ryan mumbles. He closes his eyes against the confession but more tears leak out the corners. 

It’s kind of horrific, watching him shatter. It’s slow, like something out of a Tim Burton movie, sharp pieces of a lopsided whole falling out one at a time before the whole mess caves in on itself. Ryan crumples, falling forward, his face pressing into Bob’s shoulder. It’s intimate, and uncomfortable, and Bob doesn’t want him to move.

“I’m so fucking tired,” he chokes on a sob, and his hand curls tight in the fabric of Bob’s shirt. “I just want it to stop so I can catch my breath. That’s all. I just need a second. If I could just get a second, that’s all I need, I swear. Just a second.”

“Let me help you,” Bob murmurs, wrapping both arms around Ryan’s too-bony shoulders and pulling him close. Ryan sags into the embrace like a puppet with his strings suddenly cut, and Bob has to hold him up. It’s alright though, he can carry the weight. “I’ve got you. Let me help you rest.”

“I can’t.” The words sound like they’ve been torn from Ryan’s throat, dripping in blood. It makes Bob feel sick as he chants, “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t, oh fuck, I can’t.”

He lifts a hand and squeezes the back of Ryan’s neck gently, trying to get his attention. “You can.”

Ryan is quiet for a long moment then says, “They won’t let me.” The defeat in his voice matches the deadness that usually clouds his brown eyes. 

“Fuck ‘they.’ Hey, look at me,” Bob growls, his hand sliding up into Ryan’s hair and pulling his head gently but firmly back so that he can see Ryan’s face. He wants Ryan to get it, to understand how very fucking serious he is here. “Fuck them all. All of it stops now. You’re done.”

“Right,” Ryan laughs and rights himself. He’s pretty much eye to eye with Bob when he draws himself up. This time it gives Bob a clear view of his tearstained, smeared mess of a face. There’s eye shadow, mascara, and lipstick in a bright blotch of color on Bob’s shirt but he doesn’t care. Not if it means that things might change. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” Ryan says, already pulled tightly back into himself. 

Bob doesn’t let him slide out of his arms though. “Stop fighting me every step of the fucking way so I can prove it to you.”

Ryan tilts his head to the side and looks at him. “So you do want to fuck me then.”

“I have eyes,” Bob sighs heavily and doesn’t let go of Ryan’s hair. He could lie, but he’s not a liar, and if he’s not honest, Ryan will never trust him and he needs that. He needs to not have to keep fighting for it.

Ryan’s expression shutters almost instantly. “So yes. I know what protection costs. Just let me know - should I get undressed now or are you going to share me with your boss?”

“No,” Bob grits out, resisting the urge to shake him again, the stubborn little fuck. “If you haven’t figured out already that Frank’s so straight he wouldn’t fuck you with a stolen dick, you’re not only stupid, you’re completely oblivious. And I already told you, this isn’t about sex. Except when it comes to keeping people from forcing it on you.”

“Except you.”

“No,” Bob squeezes his hands around Ryan’s wrists to emphasize the point and to keep himself from going crazy. “No, you little shit. Stop putting words in my mouth and hear me. I’m not going to fuck you. I’m not going to take anything from you that you don’t want me to have, and it’s obvious that you don’t. Maybe if you change your mind, decide you want to give something, and you can convince me you actually want it?” He shrugs. He keeps his face as blank as he can, like the idea of Ryan with him – actually wanting to be there – is something that’s never occurred to him before. 

“What?” Ryan demands. “If I convince you I really want you, then what?”

Bob shrugs again, then dips his head in and presses a quick, closed-lipped kiss to Ryan’s too-red mouth. Ryan freezes for a moment then opens to it, his lips parting in a sigh. It’s an invitation that Bob doesn’t take. He pulls back when Ryan’s tongue presses against his lower lip, looking for a way in. That’s not what this is about.

Ryan’s expression is mostly stunned with a little hurt. It’s sobering, because leaning back in and picking up where he left off would be so fucking easy. Instead Bob reaches out and brushes Ryan’s overly long bangs back again, then lets him go. His eyes are huge in his face and Bob wonders what they’d look like crinkling around the edges in a real smile. He wonders if Ryan will ever be able to do that again. 

“You didn’t-” Ryan sputters. It’s cute. It makes him look his age, young and beautiful instead of worn out and used up.

“I told you. I’m not taking anything from you. Not ever. The fact that you’re pretty and I want you doesn’t change that. I don’t take things that aren’t given freely. It’s against my beliefs. Well, unless it’s business.”

Ryan frowns at that and takes a step back. “And I’m not business, even though Frank and that fucking CO told you to watch me.”

“No,” Bob says and swallows. “You’re family.” Like Frank, like Jamia, like the older Mr. Iero, like Brian used to be before everything came crashing down. Ryan Ross is one of his now, whether he wants to be or not. It goes way beyond the simple surveillance and protection Frank wanted to extend, and Bob’s wise enough to know it’s too late to try and change that. 

Ryan wraps his arms around himself again and rubs them like he wants to warm himself. It’s the first truly self-defensive posture Bob’s seen out of him since he arrived on the Block. It’s oddly comforting to know he still has the impulse to defend himself at all. “What’s that mean?”

So many ways to answer that. Bob goes with simple honesty. It’s the easiest, and no less than what Ryan deserves. “It means that you’re mine whether you decide I’m yours or not, and that when you need me, I’m here. Period.”

“Period,” Ryan repeats dumbly.

“Yeah. Period. It ends a sentence. You’ve got me and my people. The end. That’s family.”

Ryan stares at him for a long time, his eyebrows knitted together. Bob feels shy after about half a minute, something he’s never really gotten all the way over from adolescence. It’s worth it, though, when Ryan finally nods.

“Okay.”

Every muscle in Bob’s body uncoils in pure relief but he doesn’t move outwardly. He doesn’t shout “thank fuck” loud enough for the CO quietly listening to them from ten feet away in the corridor to hear either. Instead he smiles. “Okay then.”

“I’m going to go fix my face,” Ryan declares, squaring his shoulders. Instead of making him look confident, it makes him seem more nervous as he gestures to the cell he shares with Frank next door. 

“I’ll wait for you,” Bob says, shaking out his hands and then shoving them into his pants pockets. Ryan frowns, then nods and walks out of Bob’s cell and over into his own. Bob follows and leans against the door as Ryan washes his face in the tiny sink and pulls his makeup out of his locker to reapply in the equally small mirror mounted on the cinderblock wall. Bob only half watches, and when Ryan’s done they walk back to the rec room together. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Peter Wentz III ~ Sentence: 25 years, possibility of parole in 9 ~ Charges: 5 counts of Aggravated Assault, Assault with a Dangerous Instrument, Assault with a Deadly Weapon, Arson, 2 counts of Blackmail, Breaking and Entering, Check Fraud, Public Indecency, Destruction of Private Property, 4 counts of Extortion, Murder in the 1st Degree, Perjury, Vandalism ~ Convicted: Breaking and Entering, Checking Fraud, Destruction of Private Property, Public Indecency**

It’s not that Pete likes prison. He doesn’t. He’s got places he’d rather be, no question. He’s just always been the kind of guy who can make the best out of any situation. So he’s made do. 

Hell, he’s more than made do. He’s made the D-Block over in his image, and he’s done it in less time than it takes most people to get settled into the routine of life in Janick. The lesson, the one Pete learned when he was fifteen but somehow manages to forget, is that getting power is easy but keeping it is hard.

The spots where things are slipping keep Pete up at night. Well. It’s one of many, many things that keep him up. He’s never been a good sleeper, but ever since boot camp it’s been so much fucking worse. Being inside is bad for pretty much the same reasons, and does wonders to remind him why he ditched that shit and struck out on his own in the first place.

When things get calm at night after lockdown, Pete can hear people’s individual pain. New meat cries. Some guys get night terrors and scream like they’re being fucking stabbed. And then there’s the sound of sex. Ever since Johnson and Klasinski took Ryan, Pete’s gotten fairly adept at telling the difference between the consensual and the nonconsensual by sound alone. 

Joe had told him to stop listening, trying to hear Ryan through the small ripples of sound that echo through the metal and concrete. Joe was empathetic but fairly practical above everything. 

“You’re fucking torturing yourself, man,” Andy had agreed. “Everyone knows that shit wasn’t your fault, except you and Ross. Why do you need to listen to what McCracken does to him when you know you can’t do shit about it?”

The knowledge that McCracken and his group’s ties to the bikers and the Cobras were too strong to take action had fucking killed Pete. Moving against anyone with tight Cobra connections is a risk, something Pete learned the hard way when Saporta first rolled into the Janick general population. 

Tim McIlrath had still been inside back then and Pete’s hold on the Block had been new, tenuous. A religious nut like Saporta, with a pull on people, was dangerous and, on Pete’s orders, Tim had tried to knock him down a few pegs. It had been mostly successful, a little public humiliation, a few bruises. Nothing but a display of power that kept Saporta from getting too tight a grip on anything. Not on the inside anyway. 

The brakes on Tim’s car had failed two months later, during his first week out on parole. Bishop and Binaei had been with him at the time. None of them had walked away. 

Pete can still remember Saporta’s smirking face when the word got around. He’d hummed to himself and made a point to stroll past Pete and squeeze his shoulder, just a little too hard to be empathetic. “It’s too bad,” Saporta had mused. “Many of my devotees are exceedingly talented with their hands. I’m sure they could’ve fixed that for him.”

So Pete didn’t move again, not like he would have on anyone else. Most people had lines. Most people kept what happened inside, inside. Of course, his other competition didn’t have an army of drones ready and willing to drink the Kool-Aid on the outside, waiting to kill your family and write _Die Pigs_ in blood on the walls. 

So Pete hadn’t been able to stop McCracken. The guy was small, but a fucking speed freak is a dangerous thing, dangerous like people think Way is, only for real. Before the first attack Ryan’s connection to Pete had been strong enough to protect him, but once the line was crossed, McCracken had taken full advantage. Nightly – and loudly. 

The guy had liked to bite. No matter how many times it happened, the yelp from Ryan’s cell as McCracken sank his teeth into skin had made its way to Pete’s ears. When McCracken had finally made parole, Pete had gone through Schechter and Father Toro and petitioned the Warden hard to get assigned as Ryan’s cell mate. 

He’d been beating that dead-horse since before the first attack. He’d seen good ol’ boys in the Brotherhood sniffing around Ryan from the start. He had pulled every favor he could to keep the kid away from them, but it hadn’t been enough.

Less than six months into his sentence, Beckett had found Ryan brutalized and unconscious behind a bookshelf in the library. In an uncharacteristic display of mercy, he had run for Pete and the COs. Pete had gotten there before the hacks, and it had been a fucking nightmare.

Ryan’s screams when he came to as the CO’s lifted him off the floor, the foot long metal stem of the spoon stolen from the kitchens still inside him, onto a gurney and off to St. Jude’s haunted Pete’s nightmares. The mess of Ryan’s violated body still made Pete sick. 

No matter how much he had wanted to take Joe and Andy’s advice and just drop it, the wounded betrayal in Ryan’s eyes when he finally hobbled back onto the Decaydance, defeated, was something he couldn’t erase from his mind. Ryan hadn’t understood what Pete was going to do for him. The damage was too raw and too personal for him to see that leaving men like Klasinski and Johnson crippled, mutilated and in pain was a better punishment than killing them. Ryan just knew that Johnson and Klasinski were still alive and what he thought that meant.

Pete’s busted his ass for more than two years trying to fix his mistakes and failed. He can’ kill them now, not when any additional attacks on them would end up pointing to Ryan. Pete had gotten stuck on the outside watching. Ryan sank into the pit of filth of the Janick population and Pete has been completely fucking powerless to stop it. Then Iero came in and suddenly things are different. 

The whole situation’s been a game changer. Pete knew that the second Schechter dropped Iero on the Block. The guy was younger than Pete with twice the reputation. He was the kind of criminal other criminals looked up to – a modern Vito Corleone with tattoos and a punk haircut. He’d even approached Pete about Chris in that old school, _Godfather Part I_ style, asking permission before siccing Bryar on him. 

It’s been months since then, and Chris is back from St. Jude’s but he’s still in the infirmary from the work that Bryar did on him. The pipe thing was kind of poetic, actually. Pete never thought of that. If he had, he’d have taken Johnson’s dick with a spoon instead of the toothbrush shiv Andy made for him. 

Joe works as one of Dr. Salpeter’s orderlies in the infirmary and he told Pete that Chris can barely speak. “Brain damage,” Joe said. “His whole right side’s fucked up. She says that it’s a miracle he’s not a vegetable.” 

Pete can’t get over the whole fucking thing. Chris had been his friend, even before he got arrested. The two of them and Tim had their hands in everything and they’d wormed their way in and wrestled control from the Ayran Brotherhood, the gangbangers, and the then-weak Italians together. Now Chris would have to relearn to talk because he’d thought the best way to get back at Pete for not giving him enough power or responsibility or whatever he’d been angry about was to rape Ryan with a fucking pipe.

He’s not sorry though. He wishes he’d been the one to do it instead of Bryar. Common sense had won out over impulse and anger though. When the Italians made the offer, Pete jumped at the chance, even though he knew it would cost him a favor. Keeping Chris alive had been his condition and Bryar had done that, left him to suffer for what he’d done. Pete’s just glad that Chris was taken care of before Patrick arrived. 

Patrick’s been a paradigm shift for Pete. He’s not sure why. It’s not like Patrick’s the first kid to roll in that’s caught Pete’s attention. Hell, there’s so much of Ryan in Patrick that sometimes, it’s creepy. Patrick’s a little older and their personalities are fairly different but their anger, their stubbornness, the impulse to protect that they both inspire in Pete – it’s the same. Only Pete’s not going to fail Patrick. 

The kid just brings something out of him. It’s something strong and good, like the guy he could’ve been if shit had gone differently and he hadn’t run from that fucking boot camp without looking back. The second he saw him, something went off in the back of Pete’s head that screamed “mine” and while it’s stopped yelling since then, it hasn’t shut up. 

Most nights, he ends up staring at Patrick’s mattress above him, trying to time his breathing to his, and trying to focus or turn off. Usually, he accomplishes neither. Sometimes, though, he can sync up and drift off like he’s out in the real world instead of a maximum security detention facility.

In the morning Pete’s all smiles whether he slept or not. Charisma, energy, reputation- that keeps his people safe and himself in control; just because he’s tired, so fucking tired all the fucking time, doesn’t change that. 

He steals food from Patrick’s tray during breakfast and drifts in and out, half an ear on the conversation, half an eye on the Cobras. Bryar’s been pulling Ryan back harder and faster from hungry hands lately, and Saporta is going to wake up and notice at some point. Pete doesn’t want to be surprised when it happens.

“I was going to eat that Pete,” Patrick mutters and grabs the not-actually-bacon-not-even-on-a-good-day off Pete’s plate in retaliation. 

He hums in agreement and watches Beckett make his way over to the Butcher’s table. It’s interesting to watch the way his hand brushes Carden’s shoulder. The way Gabe is watching him too is more interesting. Beckett making moves is always worth paying attention to. Fucker’s a born survivor – like those animals that can predict an earthquake or a tornado. 

Pete drops his head onto Patrick’s shoulder. He does it because it’s solid and also because it lets him get a better look at the table the Brotherhood staked out in the far corner without being obvious. Patrick’s good for hiding when he’d rather just be obvious, among other things. Pete can’t remember how he managed before the kid got here, actually. 

Patrick sighs and shrugs his shoulder under Pete’s head. “I’m not a pillow, Pete.”

“But you’re so damn fluffy,” Pete retorts. Patrick’s cheeks get red with annoyance and Pete grins at him. He has to keep himself entertained somehow and there are only so many hours in a day you can read, or play cards, or walk the same floor over and over again. 

“Fuck you and fuck fluffy,” Patrick grumbles but he doesn’t push Pete away. Pete doesn’t know what changed that first week, Pete’s afraid to ask, but Patrick stopped pushing him away. 

Pete’s done nothing but pull closer since. It’s safer this way. If people like Klasinski and the Brotherhood and Saporta think they’re fucking, it doesn’t matter that they’re not. Even though if Patrick offered, if he seemed even half into it, Pete would be there in a second. 

That’s irrelevant. Pete maimed for Ryan. He’ll kill for Patrick. He’s made that quietly clear, and so far he hasn’t been challenged on Patrick the way he was with Ryan. Appearance and allegiance are everything. Pete just needs to hang on to both until he can make parole. 

It’s easier said than done, but Pete’s never been one for easy. He thrives when he’s challenged, and when he meets Saporta’s eyes across the room, the challenge is clear. 

Pete’s already making a list of inmates he needs to solidify relationships with before breakfast is finished. As much as he’d like to talk to Saporta, work this out before it comes to a head, he knows better. Saporta’s self-importance and self-delusion are going to blow up, in one way or another.

It’s been coming since the day Saporta’s crazy ass got arrested. When he does follow through with the rise of the Cobra or whatever he calls it, it’s going to rip the D-Block in half. All Pete knows is that he plans to be ready. 


	9. Chapter 9

**George Ross III ~ Sentence: 23 years, possibility of parole in 8 ~ Charges: Grand Theft Auto, 2 counts of Possession with Intent to Sell, Possession of an Illegal Firearm, Resisting Arrest ~ Convicted: 1 count of Possession with Intent to Sell, Possession of an Illegal Firearm, Resisting Arrest**

Father Toro’s office doesn’t belong in a prison. It belongs in a Rectory, some church filled with warm wood and stained glass. Ryan picks at polish on his nails and stares at the small crucifix on the Father’s desk, taking in the carved image of Jesus, blood in his eyes, sadness in the set of his mouth. 

Ryan never used to like crucifixes before. Years of Catholic school put him off them. Now, he finds them weirdly comforting, like Jesus can relate or something. He doesn’t buy the savior thing though. There’s no such thing.

Father Toro sighs and folds his hands on the table. “You know why you’re here?”

“Because you want to save me, too?” Ryan sighs, scraping a fleck of blue off his thumb and onto the carpet of Father Toro’s office. “It’s like the new black all of a sudden.”

“Your salvation is between you and Christ, Ryan,” Father Toro says. He’s not even a little ironic about it. The guy fucking believes. He really does. It’d be annoying if he weren’t so goddamn sincere. 

Ryan just shrugs. “Me and Christ aren’t currently on speaking terms. He stopped returning my calls a couple years ago.”

“And that’s your business. I didn’t call you in here in a religious capacity.” 

Which means he’s talking as the prison shrink. Thank you Holy Mother Church for putting the fucking guy through grad school. Because nothing says Catholicism like a psychology degree. “You going to tell me that I’m crazy?”

“I’m telling you that visiting hours started fifteen minutes ago and he’s here. Again.”

Ryan’s whole body tightens and he fixes his gaze on the bottom of the desk. “Spencer knows I’m not going to see him.”

“You know what we call that in the psychological community? Avoidance.” 

Well, duh. Avoidance and its friends Denial and Numbness have kept Ryan from biting through his own wrists to open the fucking veins. He doesn’t say that, though. He just shrugs and keeps his eyes down. 

“He came and spoke to me last time. He just wants to see you, Ryan.”

“Well, you know what Mick Jagger would say to that.”

Father Toro sighs, but he smiles a little bit. “You don’t think that seeing him might be what you need?”

Ryan needs to sleep through the night without waking up in a cold sweat, choking on a scream. He needs to be able to walk normally again. He needs to never have to worry about whether next time he gets torn up bad enough to see Dr. Salpeter he’s going to test positive for something scarier than the usual gonorrhea or chlamydia. He needs a hit. He needs to be on a goddamn beach in Tahiti sipping mai tais, and to have a million dollars. Sometimes people get what they need. But he doesn’t. “I need this conversation to end.”

Father Toro folds his hands together. “I think it’d be good for you to, at the very least, tell him to his face what’s going on.”

No, it fucking wouldn’t. It’s not that Ryan doesn’t want to see him. He does. He misses Spencer so fucking much sometimes that it wakes him up crying in the middle of the night. But the person he is now is not the guy who took the fall for them both. Spencer doesn’t need to see what he’s become. 

“If he’s truly your friend, he won’t care,” Father Toro says, fixing his earnest puppy eyes on Ryan. Guys who have broken Ryan’s face open with one good backhand have crumbled under that look. “He’ll understand, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Of course he’ll understand. Spencer’s always been able to understand him, just crawl right into his head and know everything. That’s how Ryan knows that Spencer will take one look at him, at his face and his eyes and the limp that’s only gotten a little better since that first attack three years ago, and he’ll know. He’ll know everything without Ryan saying a word. 

There’s so fucking many ugly torn places in Ryan now. There are scabbed over scars, from the things Ryan’s done and become, that mark up more than just his skin. It’s taken a lot of work, and a no small amount of chemical assistance to accept that inside these walls. 

He just can’t let Spencer see it. It’ll destroy him and then the only thread Ryan’s been clinging to all this time will be cut. This isn’t about what Spencer wants. It’s about what he needs. Protecting Spencer had gotten him here in the first place. 

But it’s saved him too. That kernel of knowledge – that if Ryan hadn’t done what he did, Spencer would be in here too – has kept him vindicated and stubborn and _breathing_. The thoughts of Spencer going to college classes, at home with his sisters, behind his drum kit, are the place Ryan’s mind runs too when he’s eating linoleum and trying to brace himself against his sixth, or is it seventh, fuck of the day.

So fuck what Spencer wants. Ryan needs it, or he’s going to die in here. And as much as he hates it when Bryar is right, he really does want to live. He’s not going to throw away the only thing he has to hold on to for the thirty seconds of joy it would give him to see his friend again.

“That all?” Ryan asks quietly.

“Well, I seriously think you should consider coming to the next NA meeting.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Ryan sighs and resists the urge to rub his face with hands. He spent almost an hour on his makeup this morning and he’s not going to fuck it up. 

“Watch your mouth in my office,” Father Toro warns, shaking his head at Ryan like a disappointed teacher. “I expect better from you.”

“I don’t understand why anyone expects anything,” Ryan mutters but he doesn’t argue. The guy’s a priest. He gets it. No, he does. He just doesn’t fucking care.

Father Toro stares him down for a long moment, then sighs. “Look, just think about the NA meeting. It’d do you good.”

“Whatever you say, Father.”

“Obviously not,” Father Toro sighs. Then he looks past Ryan and a small smile appears on his lips. “Your ride’s here.”

“What- Oh, fuck me.” Bob Bryar is loitering in the hall outside the office. Ryan can see him through the window in the door.

“Vow of chastity,” the Father laughs. “Thanks for the offer though.”

Bob is leaning against the wall, unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. The Family keeps him and Iero flush – cash, cigarettes, various and sundry minor contraband items. Bob looks at him, through him, in a way that makes Ryan want to fucking run and jump him and call him inside all at the same time. “Why won’t he leave me alone?” Ryan mutters, to himself. 

Unfortunately Father Toro hears him and decides to put in his two cents. Because that’s what the Virgin Mary would want him to do, or some shit. “Because he, like some other people I could name, isn’t ready to give up on you, yet.”

Ryan has nothing to say to that. He pushes up and walks as quickly as he can. He’s still moving slow though and walking still hurts. He invests a large amount of energy in not wondering if it will ever stop hurting. 

He walks out and past Bob, who follows him. For a second, Ryan can see him as a big blond puppy, and not a guy who can rip out a throat like Way did, but with less mess. 

“Wondered where you got to. Again.” Bob jerks his head back towards Toro’s office. “Good talk?”

Ryan shrugs and moves away from him. “None of your business.”

Bob lights his cigarette. “I’m not going away just because you run.” He flicks ash on the ground as he walks. “I feel like I should remind you of that.”

“Yeah, you’re like herpes.”

The proper response there would be _you’d know, whore_. It’s what Ryan would say if he were talking to someone as turned out as he is. 

“I like to think I’ve got a better personality than genital warts,” he replies and the fucker is smiling a little. Ryan wants to hit him, tell him to fuck off, cry, and kiss him, all at the same time. Another fucking reason he wishes Bob would go away. He can’t just be numb around him. 

“Not really.”

“Still not leaving.”

“God, shut up.”

“Well, when you ask so nice,” Bob chuckles, then he sighs. “I wish you’d stop trying to get away from me. I saw you with Carter and Tyga this morning. Did you at least choose to do that?”

Ryan stiffens. It’s none of Bob’s fucking business. It’s not. And Dwayne Carter’s okay, considering no one looks good with tattoos all over their face like that, and the fact that Ryan can’t understand a fucking word the guy says most of the time. “It was just a thing.”

“Like Jimmy Urine’s just a thing, or like Saporta’s just a thing, or some other kind of thing?”

“I don’t have to answer that.”

“No,” Bob agrees affably, “but I’d appreciate it.”

Ryan shrugs because what is he supposed to do with that? The lack of pushiness and genuine fucking warmth in Bob’s approach trips him up every fucking time. “I’m almost out of lipstick.”

“I could get it for you.”

“Yeah, well now Carter is,” Ryan replies because the idea of Bob getting things for him makes Ryan prickle all over. It’s a line, one he’s not willing to cross if Bob won’t let him trade for it. It, like so many things about Bob, makes Ryan feel off balance. 

Bob has stopped walking and is just looking at him. Ryan’s used to people looking at him in all sorts of ways. Hungry. Calculating. Pitying. Disgusted. 

Fucking Pete still can’t meet his eyes without revulsion creeping over his face, the bastard. Fucking fuck him. Like Ryan’s asked for any of this. Like he’d be this way if Pete had actually protected him like he said he would. 

Bob’s not looking at him like any of that. He’s a little amused, and a lot frustrated, but mostly just…patiently expectant. It’s fucking bizarre.

“What?”

“I’m just waiting,” Bob says with a shrug. “You’ve got to wake up sometime.”

“I’m not sleeping.”

Bob shakes his head. “Yeah you are. You’re freaking Sleeping Beauty.” He chuckles to himself and slips his cigarette back between his lips.

“Oh, what, and you think you’re prince fucking charming? I’ve got news for you, Bryar. You’re no goddamn prince.”

“Nope. I’m not,” Bob agrees, his cigarette bobbing as he speaks. “You are.”

“So in your little scenario, I’m Sleeping Beauty and the Prince.” Bob nods and Ryan groans. “You can’t be both.”

Bryar quirks that little smile again, the one that makes Ryan feel so deep that it fucking hurts him to look at it. “Sure you can.”

Ryan swallows hard. He does not want to like that scenario. It’s ridiculous and it makes him want to run away fucking screaming. “How the fuck’s that work?”

“When you’re ready, you’ll wake yourself up. Till then, I’m the castle.”

“You are fucking weird, is what you are.”

Bob laughs then and rubs the back of his neck, almost shy. Ryan’s seen him beat the shit out of a guy three times his size and he’s going to be shy? He doesn’t make any sense and Ryan wants to find out more, despite himself.

“Yeah, you try living with Way. The guy fucking rambles to himself and half the time it’s in these crazy metaphors. I think it’s rubbing off.”

Way scares Ryan. Way scares everyone, but Ryan’s never gotten over the fear of the unpredictable his father instilled in him as a kid. One too many unexpected, unearned smacks that came out of seemingly nowhere when the old man got too far down in the bottle to see out, made him a little twitchy before he ever got arrested. It’s worse now.

Pretty much everything’s worse now. Gabe used to help with a lot of it. Ryan misses Gabe’s lips, the way he could talk any situation better, the familiar touch of his hands, and even the way he tasted. But ever since Bob and Frank tried to stake a claim on him when he goes to the Cobras, drops to his knees for them and lets himself be used, Gabe’s tenderness doesn’t go very far beyond a smile.

Gabe’s stopped smiling since Bob and Iero got here. Now he just fucks Ryan’s mouth and walks away after. It makes him want to hate them, but they’ve made his nights better so he just can’t. Iero, at least, isn’t looking to fuck, or worse, bite. 

And for whatever crazy reason, Bob Bryar seems to genuinely care. It makes Ryan prickly and angry because why? What the fuck? Especially since Bob won’t just fuck him already, even though he could. Ryan would be more than into it. But it’s something. Ryan’s desperate enough to take what he can get. 


	10. Chapter 10

**William Beckett**

No one is listening to Bill. That’s a fucking grave failing on their part because, if anyone would pay fucking attention, he would tell them that Gabe is slipping. And he would warn them to back the fuck up and find shelter. 

Gabe’s eyes are narrow and tight like a snake and he’s started watching people the same way. Bill sits and watches him watch Stumph or Ross like he wants to eat them. It’s a fucking snuff film in gaze form and it’s dangerous. 

The way Gabe has quietly started taking from his own stock isn’t helping. He doesn’t do it in front of his other followers, but it’s definitely something with hallucinogens. Bill had asked him about it once, and Gabe had mumbled something about “communing with the Cobra.” Bill had nodded and willed himself not to hear the inhaling sound.

Gabe’s getting more zealous, and there’s nothing as dangerous as a fanatic. It’s why Bill always avoided the Jesus freaks who wanted to sell him God on the streets back when he was running his boys. Fuckers high on God did unpredictable shit like those poor Jonestown bastards. 

It never used to be a problem before. The Church of Hot Addiction had its loyal followers out in the real world, but it was more theoretical inside. It was just an affiliation for people who weren’t big on the Brotherhood or who lacked ties to Wentz, the Indulgences or the Eastside Boys. At some point after Ross started acting like maybe he liked Bryar’s attention, Gabe started to ramble on with the Cobra bullshit. 

Bill doesn’t think the one caused the other. Not directly at any rate. The kid’s just a pawn, a symbol of the private war Gabe’s been waging against Wentz since day one for dominance. Bill thinks that’s it more than anything. 

Bill’s always gotten on well with Gabe because he was hot, he was a half-way decent fuck, and he ran a genius fucking con. Now, he’s half-high and half drunk on power. And somewhere between getting arrested and the Italians reestablishing themselves as a force in Janick, Gabe bought his own press.

He mumbles under his breath about the serpent’s starvation and force as he watches Bryar and Ross together. Just the watching isn’t the problem. Bill will admit, it’s not a half bad show.

About once a day, Ross will make a move on the guy. Kid’s got some half decent moves, too. Sometimes its blatant shit, like crawling into his lap. Sometimes it’s more subtle, lips at Bryar’s ear, fingers on his wrist. The one time where he oops, tripped and fell face first into Bryar’s lap? Classic. Bill hasn’t used that one since he was about fourteen, but he remembers it well. It worked like a charm on his 9th grade English teacher.

Inevitably though, Bryar will firmly but gently set Ross away from him. He’ll smooth away any smudges he did in the kid’s ridiculous makeup and talk him down. 

Bill’s been close enough to hear once or twice. It’s all touchy feely bullshit. Giving and understanding and how he doesn’t want Ross to feel used and blah blah blah. If Bill didn’t know Bryar opened Gutierrez’s skull with that pipe and spread his brains around the gym floor, he’d think he was one of those pathetic weak-minded purity ring fuckers who are all about true love and abstinence.

Ross always walks away fucking angry. He storms off, cursing and cruising for a fight or a fuck. He tends to find both, especially if he wanders back to Gabe afterward. Though that’s happening less and less often, because Bryar always follows hot on his heels, fucking watches like some kind of pervert. Voyeurism isn’t Gabe’s style when he didn’t ask for the audience.

Some days it doesn’t matter, though. Some days Gabe’ll grab Ryan’s ears and face fuck him while smiling over at Bryar, giving a little salute after he comes on the kid’s face and fucks up all that pretty makeup. Bill prefers that. That, at least, is fairly familiar. He just doesn’t like how erratic the shift between one and the other is becoming.

Wentz and Stumph are totally a different story. With them, Gabe’s got Angelface syndrome, like out of Fight Club. He wants to flat out destroy them. The look on his face is the same one kids on the beach get when they’re kicking sandcastles into nothing.

It’s not like Stumph’s that much to look at, physically. He’s just a slightly chunky kid. Wentz is the pretty one of the pair. Bill fucked him a couple times, casually, during his first few days on the Block. It’s just his way of making nice with the big players on the scene. The guy’s a good lay, aggressive and demanding but not a dick about it, and he’s got power. 

That’s all hot as hell, but it’s nothing compared to the glow Stumph’s got. Nearly a year into life on the Decaydance and Stumph still has that new car smell. He hasn’t changed hardly at all. He’s leaner, stronger from time on the weights and heavy bag in the gym. Another six months and the babyfat’ll be all but gone. Still, he’s so fresh there’s almost a goddamn dew about him.

It draws the attention and keeps the eye. Then once you’re looking, you can see the way Wentz is with him. It’s not the same as it was with Ross, not by a fucking long shot. They’re in each other’s pockets and Wentz doesn’t even bother to act like he’s keeping his hands to himself. Wentz’ll just climb into the kid’s lap and spend the afternoon playing chess with Hurley from there. The guards yell at him more than anyone else about, “fucking hands, Wentz, where I can see ‘em or you’re going in the hole, I swear to Christ.”

It wouldn’t be so bad if the kid were just a fuckpuppet like Ross. After all, you use a puppet, you drop it back in its box, and you move on. No harm no foul, it’s just a toy. But Wentz keeps Stumph as council, like he does Trohman and Hurley. 

They’re this tangled, interlocked mess that manages to somehow be stronger than before. Wentz’s got an air of strength he didn’t have before Stumph got here. It’s saying a fucking lot because the guy always packed a punch and Stumph’s not doing half bad in the balls department either.

Between Stumph and Ross, Gabe’s salivating over the possibility of carnage. It’s an expression Bill recognizes well. Guys who looked like that never got near his better boys. They got shuffled off onto the ones who were so strung out on heroin they couldn’t feel their hands, let alone the damage being done. 

In general, Bill’s confident in his own judgment enough to say it’s not a good look. Last time Gabe got it, Ross got long-dicked by the business end of that spoon. Bill doesn’t have any issue with that, but fucking Iero’s involved now. 

Bill spent his adolescence on and off the streets. His first pimp when he was twelve was a guy named Tony who paid his own dues to the Lazzara family. He knows, you don’t fuck with Wise Guys. Ever. You don’t fuck with their goods, property, or people. Retribution for transgressions against La Cosa Nostra is swift, efficient, and ruthless, just like big business cooperate America.

Iero’s old man is a legend in some circles. The guy restructured the whole Jersey organization after all the FBI roundups in the 80’s. He built an empire from the ground up. Iero’s the prince, and not just because he was born to the throne. The guy was born to the knack, too. 

Of course, Bryar’s not Italian, so he’s probably not Made, but he’s under the umbrella of the Family, fucking clearly. And if he’s in their shadow and he’s got claims to Ross, then Ross is pretty much Iero’s too, for all intents and purposes – his people or his property, it doesn’t really matter. Iero’s got a claim, and through that claim on Ross, he’s tied back to Wentz whether Ross likes it or not. 

It’s a big fucking mess, and Gabe’s too far gone to notice. Or maybe he does and he just doesn’t give a fuck. He’s looking for the perfect time to move anyway, and he won’t be happy until he burns the D-Block to the fucking ground, taking Stumph, Wentz and Ross down in the flames.

It makes Bill wonder how long it’s going to take him to get shit finalized with Butcher and Siska for a change of scenery. They’re opening up to him a little at a time and they’re solid. More importantly, they’re out of the fucking way. 

Then there’s getting the head of the unit to sign off on a transfer to be Carden’s cellmate. That one can’t come a second too fucking soon. Gabe doesn’t sleep much anymore. He just talks and talks about how the Cobra will rip Ross or Wentz or Stumph’s throat or stomach out and fuck the bloody hole left behind for the sanctity of the Church of Hot Addiction. 

It’s the kind of psychotic shit Bill’d expect from Way more than Gabe. That is not the kind of imagery that Bill wants while he’s drifting off to sleep. The ugly reality that kind of delusional babbling promises is about a thousand times more terrifying than whatever visions swim through Gabe’s head and Bill isn’t a man who frightens easily.

Gabe’s slide into his own myth isn’t slowing down and Bill will admit it, at least to himself. He’s a little scared now. So he makes a request to Schechter again about that transfer. 

If he doesn’t get it in the next couple of weeks, he might have to start some shit. He prefers to lay low, but a month alive in the hole would be better than ending up dead on the D-Block. Bill’s a firm believer in the any port in a storm philosophy, even if that port’s a ten by ten cement room with nothing by a bare bulb and a bucket to shit in, because he’ll be damned if he’s going to let Gabe take him down with him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Frank Iero Jr.**

It takes for-fucking-ever to call his father and talk the old timers on other cellblocks, but he needs their approval before Frank’s ready to move. The status quo in D-Block’s all right. Wentz does the best he can, and his best is fucking impressive considering he didn’t have the manpower and connections coming in that Frank does. 

He’s a good honest criminal that Frank can respect. The guy understands fidelity, respect, honor. He gets where the lines are. And all this he has just explained to Wentz, who is staring at him, a little amused.

“You want to forge an alliance.”

“You make it sound like we’re on fucking Survivor.” Frank sighs. “I’m thinking more England and the U.S. during World War II.”

“Am I the U.S. in this scenario?”

“No. You’re the British at Dunkirk.”

“Weak. Dunkirk’s the one in Belgium with all the dead Allies in the poppies, right?”

Frank forgets sometimes that not everyone reads, especially not convicted felons. Currently lurking in the mostly-empty prison library doesn’t count because you can’t actually get knowledge through osmosis. “Never mind,” he says, keeping his voice low. The whole goal of this little meeting is to stay under the radar with this. “The point is, you and me consolidate our resources and deal with the Cobras and the Aryans before they get out of control.” He steeples his fingers. 

“I’d say they passed that point way before you got here.”

“Right but I know you know that something is brewing and that if we don’t move first, they will. Saporta’s somehow building his base with the Brotherhood, and he’s not happy.”

“It’s funny,” Wentz chuckles in a voice that doesn’t sound amused at all. Wentz is just playing with him. “The guy’s Jewish enough to have ended up in fucking Dachau and the Neo-Nazis still listen to him. Kinda makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” 

“Not really. I’m more concerned about the way he’s behaving now, here, in the real world,” Frank snaps. He’s not sure how Wentz pulls off cooperative and obstinate at the same time, but it’s impressive. He wishes he were in a position to really compare notes. 

“That’s partly your fault.” Wentz counters, pointing at Frank and smirking a little as he says so. “You’re taking big steps and he feels threatened. It doesn’t help that you stole his pet project.”

Frank doesn’t let his expression change as he shrugs. “Things need to change. You’ve done a decent enough job with the tools at your disposable, but it can be better. Don’t act like you wouldn’t have done the same fucking thing with Ross if he’d let you.”

“That’s not what we’re talking about.”

“No, we’re talking about the inevitable explosion that’s coming. I want my people standing when it’s over. Do you?”

“Fuck you, Iero. I was here before you and I’ll be here after you’re gone.”

“And wouldn’t it be nicer to have all the keys to the kingdom when I go instead of trying to hold onto just a room or two? Why are you fucking with me, man? I know you want this.”

Wentz shrugs and grins his big dumb grin at Frank. It’s hiding something. “Maybe I’ve seen _The Godfather_ too many times. I don’t want you to send me Sonny’s corpse all riddled with bullets to clean up or whatever.”

“You know, life’s not a movie.”

“That hasn’t been my experience.”

“Wentz, fuck, listen to me. I want to help here, okay? I want us to get control of the drug flow Saporta’s got with the Eastside Boys and the Indulgence guys, and I want to reorganize Beckett’s boys, and I think you want to help me. The situation is less livable than it could be, and I plan to change that.”

“You shoot high don’t you, dude?”

Frank wishes for his gloves and rubs a hand through his hair. He misses the way they made his fingers feel contained. “Are you resisting me on this over Ross? Because if you are, then you’re a fucking moron.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Wentz says, shutting off hard and fast. Frank hasn’t spoken to him about Ross since he asked for permission to deal with Gutierrez, but he remembers this. The way Wentz closes down and gets fucking prickly is exactly the same.

“We’re taking care of him. Bob’s got him and Bob takes care of what’s his. He’s not going to let anyone touch him that he doesn’t ask for. You’ve got my word on that.”

Wentz quirks an eyebrow at him. “And I’m supposed to trust that?” 

“My word?” Frank prickles. He doesn’t rise out his chair because he needs this to work. “Yes motherfucker, you are. In here, out there, my word’s fucking solid.”

Wentz stares at him. He’s measuring, calculating, finding something specific. “And I’ve got your word on Bob?”

“I don’t know the specifics of your damage with Ross. I haven’t asked. He hasn’t said. I honestly don’t fucking care, because you need to pull your head out of your ass and realize that this isn’t about him or your fucking conscience. This is about your guys and my guys all making it through the next few years in one fucking piece.”

“You really think that’ll be enough after everything?” Wentz counters but he’s listening. Frank has finally got his fucking ear.

“Yeah. I do. I think Saporta’s a fucking instigator, and if we can deal with him, we can head shit off at the pass.”

“By what? Killing the guy?” Wentz laughs. “Forget how it’d fuck with a shot at parole. The guy has a fucking cult of crazies outside just waiting to make him their fucking Jesus if he gets wacked in here, and they’ll go Biblical on whoever does it. I don’t want to end up the next Sharon Tate when I finally get free, and none of my guys do either.”

“If they find out.”

“Shit always gets out, Iero. You should know that best out of all of us.” Wentz folds his feet up underneath him in a move that’s amazingly child-like, considering the mayhem he’s organized, inside Janick and out on the street. 

Frank’s been thinking about this for awhile now. Wentz is right, of course. There’s only so much they can get away with, particularly considering that they’ve got something to lose. The only answer he’s come up with so far isn’t a good one. “If we can’t figure out a way to make it look like a convincing accident, we need him to land in Solitary.”

Wentz stiffens, drops his feet and shoves away from Frank. “Fuck you,” he hisses, his eyes wide. “Just fuck you, Iero, no.”

“I’m not asking you to put up one of your guys for this. I’m asking you to help push it over the line.”

“With his connections, he’d pretty much have to kill someone to end up in Solitary, Iero,” Wentz snarls, leaning over and almost baring his teeth. Frank doesn’t flinch. Not visibly anyway.

“I’m well fucking aware.”

“Kill, maim in front of a hack if we’re very lucky and it’d have to be like… Schechter or Claret. And he’s got to do it with his own fucking hands. There are less than a handful of people he’d get that angry to go after, and they’re all my people. So fuck you. I’m out of here.”

Frank pulls himself to the side just in time for Wentz to kick his chair in his direction and turn towards the door of the library. He doesn’t want to do this. It’s a low blow, but needs fucking must. 

“He’s been watching Stumph,” he calls half a second before Wentz gets to the door. His entire body goes tight; neck to feet just like Frank knew he would.

“You know what happened the last time he got his eye on one of your boys?” Frank lets the question hang in the air for a moment. Then he takes a deep breath and tries not to hate himself. “He cries in his sleep, you know.” He continues in a soft voice. “He wakes up and his face is fucking soaked and sometimes, usually if he’s dreaming real deep, he begs. He begs for it to stop and I can shake him for an hour and he won’t wake up.”

“Fuck yourself. Fucking fuck yourself you goddamn Guinea prick,” Wentz chokes out, but his voice sounds rough. He won’t turn around and Frank thinks Wentz may be crying. He doesn’t push. A man’s pain is his own, even if Frank’s using it to get shit done.

“You can barely notice the way he flinches at contact unless you’re looking for it, but me and Bob, we’ve been looking. He does it every time someone touches him, good or bad.” Frank laughs, a sad laugh that really works for what he’s doing here, but is completely fucking involuntary because he hates it, too. “He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it anymore. Is that what you want for Stumph?”

“Shut the fuck up.” 

Frank would smile in triumph if he weren’t tired, soul deep. This isn’t the man he wanted to be, but he wants to get out alive to be that man with Jamia one day, so he’ll do what he has to. “He’s so fucking fresh, Wentz. He’s still mostly whole. if Saporta decides to break him-“

“Saporta’s not going to lay a goddamn hand on Patrick.”

“Saporta never touched Ryan either. Klasinski and Johnson and all the fucking Ayrans and half the gangbangers broke Ryan down. He just scooped up what was left. He doesn’t need to lift a finger.”

Wentz deflates. Frank watches the fight drain right the fuck out of him. He pulls his hand in front of his face, confirming Frank’s suspicions, but when he turns around, his face is dry and his eyes are clear.

“Alright, Iero, talk to me.”

Frank pushes the chair across from him back out with his foot and gestures to it. “Have a seat.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Gerard Way**

Schechter starts talking to him with a simple question. Gerard’s in the chapel, Father Toro’s already done Mass, and Schechter comes to stand right next to him and says, casually like they’ve been talking for years, “How’s life with Bryar?”

It’s innocuous and so surprising that Gerard starts talking. Nothing specific. He doesn’t want to die before he can get out and go home to his family. He just… he doesn’t have that many people to talk to. 

There’s the Father, of course, and there’s Bob. But the Father has to take care of the souls of everyone in Janick. Gerard can get how that’d be time consuming. 

Bob listens sometimes, but he’s Frank’s guy. Plus, he spends all the time he’s not with Frank being crazy over the Ross kid. It’s kind of cute to watch, like a prime time soap unfolding right in front of him. He’s always been a sucker for a love story, but it doesn’t make for good conversation.

Gerard doesn’t realize he’s been talking for an hour until the lunch bell goes off. He blinks at Schechter and ducks his head. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I talked your ear off, and I don’t think I actually answered your question.”

“You did,” Schechter says with a small smile. The guy has more tattoos than some of the inmates, almost as many as Frank. It makes Gerard wonder what his deal was before, if maybe it’s part of why Schechter seems so much more understanding of inmates than your average hack. “It’s fine.”

“So you wanted to listen to me ramble about my alcoholism and how D-Block is like pre-revolution Genosha, only without the mutants.” Gerard smiles a little and pushes his hair out of his face, like the act will magically make him feel less nervous about talking to a guard who could pull out his club and beat him stupid at any point. “That’s your idea of a good time?”

“Gotta get my kicks where I can,” Schechter says with absolutely no sarcasm. “I’m sure you can relate. You should get to the cafeteria if you want to eat today.”

“You’re not scared of me drinking your blood and making you one of the undead?”

Schechter laughs at that. “No. The padre says you haven’t missed an AA or NA meeting since you got here. And I read your file. You had more shit in your system when you got arrested than a Colombian drug mule.”

Gerard ducks his head. “It wasn’t just coke.” He doesn’t know what he was on when it all went down. He’d been on a bender for days. Maybe weeks. He’d been too fucked up to tell. “I’m pretty sure it was cut with angel dust.”

“You on anything now?”

Gerard shudders. He hadn’t liked it then. He isn’t going to touch it now unless someone shoves him face first into it, kicking and screaming. He shakes his head and Schechter shrugs. “Then I’m pretty sure my blood’s safe around you. Get to the mess.”

After that, Gerard doesn’t know, but it’s almost like they’re friends. Schechter doesn’t give too much away of himself, hacks can’t and Gerard gets that. At least he’s got someone to talk to, now. 

It’s nice, because Gerard has nothing but time to hear things. People talk in front of him. They talk around him. They think that the presumed “crazy” also means “deaf”, which is completely fucking stupid but hey, Gerard’s not going to educate them.

He knows who’s got drugs (mostly so he can avoid them), and he knows who wants them but can’t afford them. He knows who wants to kill who (which seems like it changes every day). And he’s sitting on what he knows about the abuse Ross suffered and Saporta’s relationship with the Aryans for a day when Bob needs it. It’s a question of when, not if, he’s going to. He knows that, too.

He feels a little convinced that one of the reasons he wants to tell Officer Schechter all of this is because the guy never fucking asks. Not once, not ever. He just shows up after Confession, once the other Catholics and the Father are gone and Gerard’s alone with his rosary.

It’s pathetic, but talking to a guard somehow turns into the best part of pretty much any fucking day that doesn’t have Mikey coming in to visit him. It’s stupid. Also, it’s probably a contact-hunger inspired crush.

It’s nice though, to feel something besides guilt and loneliness. He’s not crazy enough to think it’s going anywhere. Jimmy Urine got thrown in the hole for a month for making a move on Officer Claret. It didn’t even really matter that everyone knew she reciprocated. 

Plus, there’s the sin thing, but Gerard doesn’t really buy that. He’s done a horrific thing. He’s seen things, some disgusting and wrong things, since he got inside too. With torturing someone with a handmade knife that used to be a toothbrush, or raping someone with a pipe to hold it up next to, Gerard finds it sort of hard to believe God’s all up in arms over sexuality. 

Mostly, Gerard’s really fond of the idea of Father Toro’s just and loving God, the one who forgives all transgressions. Prayer makes his brain relax a little, zones him out a bit like drinking used to. In some ways it’s more effective than the meetings he goes to, anyway. When most people interrupt it, it feels like he lost his grip. When Schechter does, it feels like he’s been given something. 

So, of course, he’s hoping that the person who walks into the chapel is Schechter every time the door opens. Usually it’s Father Toro, who gives Gerard his big dopey smile and goes to take care of whatever needs to be done. If it’s a fellow inmate, they hug the wall to avoid him and sit far, far away.

He leaves people alone when they do that. He doesn’t know most of the inmates, so it’s not like they’d strike up a chat. Also, he doesn’t like to scare people unless he’s trying (which he hasn’t since art school). But when Ross slinks in and curls up in the farthest pew possible, Gerard is just freaking compelled. 

After all, the guy’s a friend – sort of. He’s Bob’s …whatever and Bob’s been good to Gerard. If Gerard has learned anything about his cellmate, it’s that Bob wants Ross to be okay. And since Gerard is here every day and has never seen the kid, he’s got a bit of clue that there’s a problem. People who show up like that to the chapel are pretty much never doing okay.

Gerard takes a deep breath and crosses the small room to sit beside him. “Hi,” he says with a smile. Ross nearly jumps out of his skin, curses, and scoots down a couple inches, eying him warily. Gerard’s smile falls. “I’m not going to bite you or anything.”

Ross’s eyes get huge and Gerard kicks himself. That was pretty much the exact wrong thing to say. He’s actually holding his breath, which isn’t cool. He shoves his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching out. He’s used to touching people to soothe them. He’s still getting used to not, even after all this time. 

“I just meant you don’t have to be afraid of me. I’m really not scary. I swear I don’t want to bite anyone. I’m harmless.”

Ryan nods but his eyes don’t get any smaller. “Right, okay.”

Gerard sighs and worries his rosary between his fingers, tilting his head at Ross, trying to remember how to do this. He was good at it once, talking to people. Mikey always said he had charisma or whatever. At the moment though, his fail is so great that all he can manage is, “I love your eyeliner today. It looks amazing.”

Ross blinks at him, a little stunned. But Gerard notices that his body’s a little less tight. “Thanks.”

“What kind do you use?”

“Drug store shit. MAC if I can get it,” Ross says, a little hesitantly. “It depends on what I can get a hold of.”

“Awesome. They’re great. I used to use Ben Nye for shadow colors, too. It’s theater makeup, you know, like for stage productions? Their colors don’t have the kick that MAC does, but it’s thick and it stays really well.”

“Yeah?” Ross asks, engaged in spite of himself.

“I was a theater fag for awhile there,” Gerard laughs. “Well, a drama queen at least. I went to school in drag once. I couldn’t do what you do with the makeup though, not free hand.”

Ross touches his face absently as if reminding himself that it’s still there. Across his eyes and the bridge of his nose like a superhero’s mask is red, no doubt to cover some unwanted impact. The eyeliner slithers down in cracks like old tree branches. Gerard takes a mental picture because he’s got an idea for a sketch now, and it feels like forever since he’s been genuinely inspired by anything. But he’ll do that later. “So, are you okay?”

“What?”

“Are you okay?” Gerard repeats, slowly and precisely. He loses people sometimes. “Most people either come here all the time, come to Mass and Confession, or don’t come at all. You don’t come at all. Guys in that last group are always upset when they do show up. So, are you okay?”

Ross seems to expand and get smaller at the same time, his body contracting and his prickly exterior pushing out. “Why do you care?”

“I’m trying to be a good person. I didn’t before, and Matt still can’t speak. So, you know, I’m working something different.”

“Matt?”

“Yeah. The guy who I hurt. He was a friend of mine until,” Gerard swallows. He hasn’t actually spoken about this since it happened. “I lost my shit. I made a colossal fucking mistake, and so I’m trying here. Can you just let me try and be decent here for two minutes?”

Ross flinches and Gerard feels like a freaking tool. He sighs and pushes his hair back. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not really.”

“Nothing here is fine. But relatively, it’s fine. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

“But we do that so well,” Gerard says and Ross chuckles. Gerard picks Ross’s hand up off the bench and shakes it. “I don’t think I’ve ever introduced myself. Gerard Way.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“No, this is where you introduce yourself.”

“You know who I am, too,” Ross says in a flat voice, tugging his hand back and curling it against his chest. 

“You suck at this,” Gerard sighs and pushes his hair back again. It keeps falling in his face so he can’t see. 

Ross’s eyes go dark with something ugly Gerard can’t identify until he speaks. “I suck at lots of things. Want me to show you?” 

Gerard can practically feel his eyebrows hit his hairline. His first thought is that Bob would kill him. Straight up cut his dick off, shove it down his throat, and then kill him. His second is that Christ, he knew the guy was in trouble but he had no fucking idea how bad it was. And now that he looks at him, at the redness in his eyes that the dramatic makeup hides, he recognizes the glaze too.

“It’s a church,” Gerard hedges.

“I’m aware.”

“You can’t give head in a church.”

“Sure you can. Wanna see?”

“No, really, thanks but you didn’t come here to give head, did you?” Ross shrugs like it doesn’t matter to him, one way or the other. But it has to matter. Right? To Ross, and to Bob, at the very least. Gerard feels a little sick and shakes his head. “No thank you, really.”

“You straight?”

“Nope,” Gerard sighs. “I don’t sleep with my friend’s boyfriends, though. It’s kinda trashy.”

“Boyfriend. Wait, you’re talking about Bryar?” Ross laughs and it’s a sound that could be nice if it wasn’t so hurt, so angry. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I just thought-“

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Think.”

Gerard frowns and huffs out a breath in frustration. “I don’t want to stop thinking. I stopped using so I could start thinking again. I just- Are you two fighting or something? Is that what you came to pray about?”

“I didn’t come to pray,” Ross snaps, sinking a little lower on the bench. “Prayer’s like masturbation without the payoff.”

“Why else would you be here then?”

“I just wanted some fucking space. Bryar’s practically on top of me with his stupid fucking face and his fucking hands and his motherfucking shoulders and I just-” He breaks off and licks his lips. “I need some peace and fucking quiet without him or Iero in my business.” He presses his thumb to his lower lip, inspects the lipstick that comes off on the pad and rubs his lips together. 

Gerard’s shoulders droop involuntarily. “And I ruined it.”

Ross shrugs but doesn’t even try to deny it. “It’s fine.”

“It’s only fine because you’re scared of me and don’t want to tell me to fuck off.”

That makes Ross chuckle as he digs in his pockets. He pulls out a tube of lipstick that’s approximately the same color as a fire engine. He unscrews it and runs it over his lower lip first. “I’d be stupid not to be,” he says at the same time without smudging it. It’s a girl skill that Gerard never mastered back when he messed around with makeup.

They sit in the quiet for a long moment. Gerard isn’t great with pauses in conversation, though. He has the crazy impulse to fill it, even if it’s not necessarily his job to talk. It makes his brain spin about possible options which is never, ever a good thing because once he starts his obsessive thinking his mouth inevitably catches up to him and insists that he say something, whether he wants to or not. What finally bursts out, sans permission, even though it’s so very much not his business is, “Bob really isn’t your boyfriend?” 

“We’re in prison,” Ross grits out. His mouth tightens into a thin, bright red line.

Gerard doesn’t see how the one affects the other, not really. Hell, look at Pete and the Stumph kid. Those two are totally fucking in love with each other. Seeing them bicker with each other on the yard is, like, one of the highpoints of Gerard’s days. “Right but he like… he’s in love with you, isn’t he?” 

Ross flinches like Gerard just hit him. His whole body reacts and he lets out a stuttered breath that sounds positively raw. “I don’t know.”

“He acts like he is. I mean, he totally bitches about you, but it’s like my brother does about his wife.” Listening to Mikey rant about Alicia is one of his favorite parts of calling home, or of his brother’s visits. It makes him feel connected to that life, the one outside in the real world. The little things tend to matter the most. “Like she drives him crazy because he cares so fucking much, you know? It’s like that. You can hear it in his voice or see it when you’re together. So, I just thought-“

“He won’t fuck me,” Ryan blurts.

Gerard draws up short at that. That’s an over-share he’d never have expected. “Oh, uh, okay.”

“You say he’s in love with me, but he won’t fuck me. So what the fuck-” Ryan kicks the bench in front of him to punctuate the word. “- does he want if he won’t fuck me?”

“I’m gonna cite the in love with you thing again.”

“That makes no fucking sense.”

Gerard sighs because all of Bob’s quiet grumblings suddenly make so much more sense. “It’s like… okay, so my little brother tried to get me into rehab a million times. I thought he was a condescending asshole, and that he was trying to run my fucking life.”

“Sounds it. Controlling too.”

“No. No, see, he was worried about me, about what was going to happen to me. He wanted to do the right thing for me, and didn’t want me to end up hurt like this.” Gerard makes a waving gesture that takes in the chapel and the whole of Janick State Penitentiary, then lets his hands drop. “I didn’t get that he did it because he loved me until there were bars between us.”

“So, what, Bob’s my brother in this scenario?”

“Hopefully you don’t have brothers who jerk off to thoughts of you. That’d be creepy and you should tell Father Toro or like… anyone with a psychology degree. I just meant that Bob’s the guy who cares enough about you to tell you things you don’t wanna hear. Not everyone has someone like that.” Gerard doesn’t anymore. Schechter is a hack, Father Toro is a priest who has to care, and Mikey comes to visit when he can and he’s glued to his Sidekick so he answers most of the time when Gerard calls, but it’s not the same. It’s not even close. “You’re lucky, you know?”

There’s another burst of the angry laughter. Gerard really doesn’t like it. “You’re the only person who’s thought I was lucky in my whole life.”

“You are though. Relatively.”

“So you think if I say that shit to Bob, he’d fuck me?”

“Is that what you want? I mean, really?” Gerard isn’t sure he wants to know. It feels like way too personal a question, but still. Ross is talking to him. Scared-of-him, cries-in-his-sleep-next-door Ryan Ross actually seems to want his input and he’d be an idiot not to at least try and help. It goes with the whole principles of AA in all of his affairs thing.

“Why’s it matter what I want?”

So many answers to that. Most of them would work on people with common sense but that’s not to be expected on the D-Block. For this though, Gerard’s got a decent answer. “Because it clearly matters to Bob.”

Ross’s lips form an “oh” but no sound comes out. He just stares at him.

“So come on. You can tell me. Vampire, remember? Dead men tell no tales.”

Ross’s mouth twitches a little, like he’s fighting something like a smile. Gerard does a mental victory dance. In his head it may involve some shimmying, but it stops when the almost smile morphs into a frown. “I think I just want him,” Ross says. 

Gerard says nothing, waiting because it’s like when Mikey would start talking. Simple declarative sentences always, always had more behind them. It was a game of wait and see, to find out if it was going to come out, or not. Ross vibes almost exactly the same.

Ross shakes his head and laughs, but this time it’s not that angry. It’s ironic, and a little sad, but it’s so much better. “It’s funny, you know, I can’t remember the last time I actually wanted someone. High school, or Gabe maybe? It’s not the same, though.” He rubs his mouth again, like he expects something different when his hand comes away covered in lipstick. “Gabe never made me feel this much. It’s like the difference between Kansas and fucking Oz.”

“Bob’s Oz in this metaphor right?” Gerard asks. He hopes to fuck it is. He likes the idea of Bob being color and magic and rediscovered priorities. He thinks that sort of thing is good for everyone. 

“Yeah.”

“At least Bob’s good people.” Unlike everyone else who Gerard’s quietly seen pull Ross this way or that. 

“For a Mafioso. But right, I forgot. He’s the good gangster.”

“For anyone. If you want him, you should say it, no games or bullshit. I bet he’d listen.” Gerard bumps Ross’s knee with his. “We’re incarcerated, not in Hell. We’re allowed some good things.”

Ross brushes his hair back from his forehead and looks sidelong at Gerard. “You don’t think this is Hell?”

“Father Toro likes to say Hell is what you make it.”

“Father Toro thinks a zombie is gonna save all our souls,” Ross mutters, that deep anger seeping back into his words. 

“I like zombies. So maybe he’s right.” Gerard doesn’t smile at Ross. He wants to, but doesn’t think it’d be appreciated because it’s clear that Ross has checked out. He’s not completely oblivious to human behavior.

The longer he sits here with him, the more he thinks about it, the more Gerard wonders if maybe Ross isn’t the one it all balances on. After all, Gabe is Gabe Saporta of the Cobras. Bob is the Italians’ guy. Pete’s a few moves from being the king of D-Block. There’s the Aryans and the various gangs – the Eastside Boys, the Indulgences, and more. And if Gerard’s not mistaken, they all reach back to touch Ross. He’s like that one stone in a building where if you pull it out, the whole thing will fall down. Gerard wonders if Ross even realizes that.

Gerard wraps his rosary a little tighter around his fingers and rises. “Thanks for talking to me.”

Ross shrugs and pulls in tighter on himself. It’s amazing how fast he can shift gears, really. Gerard walks back to his corner of the small chapel and sits back down to finish the Rosary he left half done. He notices that, for all that he claims not to be a fan of Jesus, Ross’s lips move and he crosses himself before he leaves, and Gerard understands. Old Catholic habits die hard. 

When Schechter rolls through, Gerard waves him over. There’s no one else here but God, so he doesn’t try and stop himself. “Having a good day, Officer?”

Schechter almost smiles and comes to stand against the wall near him, as close as they can get away with. “Not half bad. Yourself?”

Gerard starts to talk, like he always does. He tells Schechter his theory, the one about Ryan Ross, cornerstone of the Decaydance’s shaky foundation which somehow turns into a story about Mikey, how he used to hold Gerard up from underneath when they were kids. Schechter nods, listening to every word, even though he doesn’t have to, and Gerard maybe loves him for it.


	13. Chapter 13

**Robert Bryar**

Bob doesn’t really know how to deal with it when Ryan walks into his cell without makeup. It’s an extra shock because the last few days he’d gone over and above – bands of color across his eyes and fucking birds done in liquid eyeliner flying up his face from his chin towards his hairline. So when he wanders in, his face completely natural, there’s a second there where Bob doesn’t even recognize him. 

He can’t remember really seeing Ryan’s face like this before, actually. The makeup job is always there, fresh and new in the morning when he and Frank roll out of the next cell. He’s caught a glimpse or two in the showers but even then, it’s momentary, streams of color washing down his face. Ryan puts it back almost as soon as his skin is dry enough. The second time he did it, Bob realized it was his armor, his only protection against the reality of his situation. 

So he’s never said anything, never pressed or asked. He’s never even suggested that Ryan stop, that maybe advertising was part of the problem. That’s why when he asked Bob to get them both out of yard time, Ryan changing and scrubbing his face clean is the last thing Bob was expecting.

He also didn’t realize how badly he’s wanted to see Ryan’s unmarked face until it’s in front of him. Bob has to fight to keep his expression neutral and nods at Ryan as he enters. “You look good.”

Ryan rolls his eyes and rubs at his cheek with his fingers, almost absently. There’s an old bruise on his cheekbone that stands out, an ugly yellow-green against pale skin, where one of the inmates Ryan traded with had gotten a little too eager. Bob remembers breaking the guy’s fingers one at a time as he looks at the bruise. He remembers that he’d almost enjoyed the opportunity to make someone who hurt Ryan hurt themselves.

“I’m trying something,” Ryan says, licking his lips. His mouth is pale and pink instead of red. There’s more color in them than Bob was expecting. 

He has to force himself not to look, because he’s not that guy. He’s not one of those men who look at Ryan like he’s something to be consumed. It does make him want to convince Frank to steal all Ryan’s lipstick so he’ll never hide them again, because Ryan’s lips are fucking gorgeous. Bob takes a deep breath and asks, cool and even, “How’s it going so far?”

“I don’t know yet.” Ryan shrugs, his bony shoulders pressing against the fabric of his shirt. It’s not one of the too-small white ones he always wears. This one hangs off his thin frame and makes him look so fucking young. 

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Just-” Ryan holds out a hand. His short fingernails are bare and he brings them to his mouth like he wants to bite them. “Just sit there and don’t talk, okay?”

Bob nods and plants his hands on his knees. His palms are sweating and he rubs them back and forth a little on his pants and tries to be patient. With Ryan he’s always trying to be patient. Knowing Frank was a great prep course for caring about Ryan. 

“So, I-” Ryan starts to pace and rubs his mouth, then looks down. He does that sometimes when he’s nervous, likes to see evidence of his movement in the form of smudged lipstick or shadow. Ryan frowns a little at his hand when it comes away clean. “Gerard said I should cut the bullshit. And since nothing else is working, I thought I’d try it.”

“Gerard,” Bob repeats, because whatever this might have been about is no longer on his radar, because Gerard? Ryan was scared shitless of him last time Bob checked. “Gerard Way? You talked to Gerard?”

Ryan nods and starts pacing again. “Yeah. I don’t know. He’s got insight and shit. It’s weird.”

Bob shakes his head and fights back a smile, because Ryan’s so clearly serious about whatever he’s trying to do. “Yeah. That’s a word for it.”

“He gave me some tips because, see, I don’t know how to do this.”

“If you gave me a clue of what this is…” Bob offers but Ryan shakes his head again, not pausing his trips back and forth across the small space. 

“I asked you not to talk so just, please, all right? Let me do this.” Ryan snaps.

Bob nods, and lifts his hands in a “calm down” gesture, and settles into just watching. He doesn’t mind. It’s a nice view. Ryan could be any guy on the street like this. He could be walking through a mall, or a grocery store, some young guy in his late teens or early twenties just living his life. He’s the kind of guy Bob would’ve watched, admired, maybe fantasized about, but never actually spoken to, because they’re so clearly from different worlds. It makes him wonder about the boy Ryan was before. 

He doesn’t voice any of that, though. He just waits until Ryan finally stops pacing. He shoves his hands in his pockets and stares down at Bob with those huge puppy eyes. It’s so weird, how Frank’s puppy eyes don’t do shit to Bob, but Ryan’s make his insides turn into a hot mess. 

He returns the stare though, until Ryan looks away and down at the floor. “You make it really fucking difficult for me, Bryar. I could turn off. And then you had to get involved, and suddenly my off switch is gone.” He jabs Bob hard in the chest. “You took my goddamn off switch.”

Bob’s taken knockout punches that hit him with less impact. He feels fucking breathless. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not. You’re not sorry. You’re always there, just fucking being there all the time and it’s insane because I-” Ryan’s voice breaks. He stops to take a deep breath in through his nose before he continues. “I want you to be there.”

Bob can’t fucking breathe. He has to dig his fingers into his thighs to keep from reaching out, but he won’t. He’s not going to because he fucking _promised_. “Ryan-“

“Seriously, shut the fuck up, Bob.”

“I’m shutting up.”

“You’re not. Even when you’re quiet, you’re still fucking talking to me. I can’t not listen to you. You’re in my head all the time, and I can’t turn it off. And you just- Fuck.” Ryan bends down and grabs the front of Bob’s shirt, using it to pull himself closer rather than to pull Bob to his feet. 

Heat radiates off him in waves this close, and Bob takes slow deep breathes because Ryan’s tried things like this before. But those were calculated, slithering advances that were nearly impossible to fend off, but so very cold. This Ryan is practically on fire, and Bob isn’t quite sure how to handle that. It’s not a Ryan he’s ever seen before. 

“You can’t just make me feel all of this and then not do anything, Bob, okay?” Ryan twists his hands in Bob’s shirt pulling their faces together and his voice drops into a raw whisper. “You can’t. You wanna be responsible, fine, but you can’t just make me feel these things and not do anything with them. It’s fucking cruel.”

“Ryan.” Bob reaches out and takes the sides and back of Ryan’s neck in both his still slightly sweaty palms, gently tugging him closer. “Hey, it’s okay.”

“No. You said if I could convince you I want it, you would. I do, all right? You win. I want you. I want you so fucking much, so just let me have it okay? Let me have one good thing.” He presses his forehead tight against Bob’s, his eyes squeezed shut. “Can’t I have one good thing?”

It takes Bob a second to respond. It’s kind of a lot, more than he was ever expecting and it makes him want to hold Ryan, pull him closer and just fucking hold him. Everything else can come later so long as he doesn’t lose this Ryan, the one that can feel and is real. “You think I’m a good thing?”

“You’re the only fucking good thing in this shithole so just, please.” Ryan dips forward a little and brushes his lips dry and soft over Bob’s before pulling back a fraction of an inch to speak. “Please, Bob, kiss me back this time.”

Ryan’s press of his mouth to Bob’s is tentative, as if there’s any fucking way on Earth Bob could possibly say no to _that_. Bob lets his lips part and the noise Ryan makes at the response would be broken if it weren’t for the edge of relief. His mouth tastes clean, like toothpaste and spit and nothing else. 

He prepared for this, Bob thinks. He fucking thought about this, really thought about it consciously before he did this, like with the makeup and the clothes that fit and fucking all of it. It makes any resistance he could have clung to evaporate.

Ryan pushes his tongue in faster and more desperate than Bob’s expecting and Bob meets him, slow and deliberate in return. Bob lets one hand slide up into Ryan’s hair, rubbing small circles into his scalp as he pulls back sooner than he strictly needs to. Ryan groans in frustration and Bob tugs down on the back of his neck. 

“C’mere,” he says in a low voice. Ryan comes, pliant like he’s never been for him before, sliding into Bob’s lap. It’s a tight squeeze, the top bunk is less than an inch above their heads but he can wrap his arms around Ryan like this, hold him like he wants to. 

Ryan’s hands are on his face, his fingers dragging through his beard, stroking it down then dragging back against the grain. It sends a shudder through Bob and he takes Ryan’s lips back with his.

“It’s soft,” Ryan mumbles into his mouth.

“Hm?” Bob pulls back enough to let Ryan speak, pressing his lips to the skin at the corner of his mouth, along his jaw up towards his ear. His palms are pressed flat against Ryan’s back, one on his spine just above his ass, the other on a shoulder blade. When he reaches the skin just behind Ryan’s earlobe and sucks gently, Ryan arches back against his hands and his ankles lock behind Bob’s back, pulling them closer.

“Your beard,” Ryan gasps. He drags the fingers of his right hand through it again, and then turns them around so the knuckles stroke the hairs back into place before they’re kissing again. 

Bob’s leading the kiss this time, deep and slow instead of rushed. There isn’t that much time before the rest of the Block gets back from yard time, but Bob doesn’t want this sloppy or fast. Ryan deserves better. Fuck, they both do. 

“It’s soft,” Ryan says again when they break for air. He slides his hand down Bob’s face, over his throat and across his shoulders, dark eyes wide. “Bob, fuck, how are you so soft?”

Bob doesn’t know what to say to that. So he just smiles and kisses Ryan again. He hasn’t been content to simply kiss like this, just kiss, since he was a teenager. But this is better. It might be ridiculous, but it’s fucking special goddamnit. It’s like, instead of shaking apart, Ryan’s coming together on top of him, rolling his hips and digging into Bob’s shoulders.

Bob pulls back and Ryan follows him, mouth open, a disappointed sound escaping from somewhere in the back of his throat. His fingers press in hard enough to hurt a little. “Bob, don’t-“

“I’m not,” Bob promises, wrapping his arms more securely around Ryan’s back and Ryan’s hands lock around the back of Bob’s neck. With his legs still wrapped around Bob’s waist, it’s almost effortless to move them so that they’re stretched out on the mattress, Ryan’s body beneath his. 

This is Gerard’s bed and he feels a little bad about using it for this, but not really. He’ll let Gerard have the top bunk until he can get the sheets to the prison laundry. Besides, he did offer. It was months ago, but Bob likes to think it still stands. 

He doesn’t bother resisting when Ryan surges up to meet him again. Ryan is silently demanding, and he’s not afraid to take what he wants, and Bob likes it. Ryan’s not shy about planting one foot on the bed so he can better raise his hips to grind against Bob, but he’s not making a show of it either. Genuine desire looks good on Ryan.

He drops his hands to Bob’s hips and tugs at his shirt, pulling it up and planting his hot hands on skin. Bob jerks a little at the way fingertips slide up his spine and then down, into his pants, pulling him closer. Ryan’s panting into their kiss, every other breath seeming to get caught on something half way out. He’s close and Bob wants to take him the rest of the way.

“Ryan,” Bob murmurs, finding that spot behind Ryan’s ear again. He licks it twice then scrapes his teeth over it so that Ryan pushes up against him just as he asks, “Can I suck you?” 

Bob thinks he knows the answer. He knows what he’d say to that offer, at least. But he’s not assuming Ryan’s answer to anything is yes, not this soon. The certainty of a later makes Bob feel a tiny bit high. Frank’s going to laugh his ass off when he finds out. Bob will care in awhile, but right now he’s thinking about how Ryan’s going to sound when he comes and wondering if he’s going to taste this good everywhere. 

The moan Ryan lets out sounds fucking raw, bleeding almost. The word “yes” is in there though, a couple of times. There’s a breathy “please”, and his name a few times, too. Bob kisses him again one more time, before moving down Ryan’s body. 

When he gets to Ryan’s fly, pale hands catch his. He looks up to find Ryan staring at him, suddenly frowning. He slides the white t-shirt up and presses a kiss to Ryan’s stomach before meeting his gaze. “What’s up?”

“I…” Ryan sighs and falls back onto the mattress so that Bob can’t see his face anymore. “There’re scars.”

The flatness is back in his voice when he says that. It’s the tone, more than the idea of scars, that makes Bob move back up Ryan’s body. He doesn’t kiss him, just hovers over him, nose to nose, staring down at Ryan. “Do you think that they could make me not want you?”

“I just… I didn’t want you to react, get angry or anything.”

“Why would I get angry?”

Ryan shrugs. It’s a visually off putting gesture to do lying down. “You get angry when I get hurt.”

“Yeah, at the people who hurt you. Jesus Christ, Ryan.” Bob had been holding himself up on his elbows but he lets himself drop so that his body is pressing heavy on Ryan. There’s not enough time, there’s never going to be enough time – not here. “I don’t care. I care that you’re okay now. So if you want me to suck you off, tell me, and I will.”

“If you want I could-” Ryan begins, the wall beginning to slide up. 

Bob shakes his head because he’s not losing him now. Not after everything. “I want to make you come, Ryan. Do you want me to?”

“Fuck yes.”

Bob presses a brief close-mouthed kiss to Ryan’s lips. “Then trust me. Can you do that?”

There’s a moment there where Bob thinks he’s going to say no. Ryan’s scars run deep enough that he could. But then Ryan nods and this time, Bob stays eye level with him as he goes for Ryan’s fly. 

He doesn’t look down and he doesn’t lift his body off him more than he needs to so he can wrap his fist around Ryan’s cock. He’s rewarded with a sharp gasp that he swallows half way out of Ryan’s mouth. 

A dozen solid strokes and Ryan is nonverbal, reduced to throaty vowel sounds that go straight to Bob’s cock. He waits until Ryan’s eyes drift closed then moves down. He doesn’t stop to look at whatever damage there might be, simply taking Ryan into his mouth, planting his hands firmly on Ryan’s hips.

Ryan doesn’t scream because he’s biting his own palm as he rolls his hips up, Bob’s hands the only thing stopping Ryan from pushing in too hard, too fast. Ryan’s grunts are muffled by skin as he thrusts up as best he can against Bob’s grip. His free hand fists in Bob’s short hair and pulls, but doesn’t try to guide. 

Bob hums his approval and Ryan moans his name, soft yet desperate through the skin gagging him. Bob sucks and swirls his tongue as best he can remember because really, it’s been awhile since he’s done this. It’s been ages for Ryan, too. Bob doesn’t think anyone’s given much of a shit about what Ryan wants with everything that’s happened, because it seems like no time at all before he comes. 

There’s no warning. Bob chokes, but doesn’t pull back from the sudden bitter, wet heat on his tongue and Ryan’s fingers yanking hard on his hair. Bob manages to cast his eyes upwards in time to watch Ryan’s long, lean body bow and his head push back into the thin mattress as he chokes on pleasure. 

When Ryan is limp, Bob swallows, pulls off, and forces himself not to make a face at the aftertaste. It’s worth it to see Ryan loose and blissed out, but it’s not his favorite flavor, not compared to Ryan’s mouth or his skin. He tucks Ryan back into his boxers, and zips his fly, before squeezing into the narrow bunk beside him. 

Ryan rolls onto his side and reaches for Bob’s waistband but Bob catches his wrist. “I’m fine.”

“Bob?”

Bob pulls Ryan’s hand off his pants and brings it up to his mouth. He presses a kiss to the knuckles. “Later.”

Ryan hitches his leg over Bob’s hip. “You’re fucking hard.” And then Ryan pushes up against him, just to prove his point. It sends off sparks in Bob’s brain, white hot. If there were time, he could probably get off to just that. 

“Yeah, well,” Bob agrees, forcing down a groan but unable to keep himself from pulling Ryan closer, digging into his waist with his hands. “You’re fucking beautiful.”

“But-“

“It’s fine.” It’s not really. He could hammer nails, but they need to be dressed. People will be wandering back any minute now. This wasn’t about him getting off. Not this time. 

“You’re serious. You blew me and you don’t want anything back.” Ryan sighs and shakes his head on the small, thin pillow they’re attempting to share. 

“Just stay here until we have to move, and we’ll call it even.”

“Only it’s not.”

Ryan’s frowning again. Bob sighs and drags his thumb over Ryan’s lips until they twitch into something less severe. Bob didn’t expect a smile, but a little is enough. “Trust me, it is. Not everything has to be a trade, Ryan. Sometimes it’s nice to just give.”

“There’s going to be a later, though?” Ryan asks. He sounds nervous and won’t meet Bob’s eyes. 

“Yeah.” Bob promises as he smoothes his fingers back and forth across the soft skin on the nape of Ryan’s neck. 

He’s toying with the idea of asking Frank to switch cellmates with him. He has been for awhile now, but this is enough to make it more concrete. 

He and Brian got in trouble together a few times back in the old days, when they were dealing with juvie raps and not real time. They were pretty fucking close until Brian decided to get clean and get out of the game. He still owes Bob a handful of favors, though. The mutual respect is still there too, even if any affection’s been crushed out by the CO/prisoner separation. Bob’s pretty sure that they can get the switch approved sooner rather than later, because considering the things he could ask for, that’s pretty fucking small. He doesn’t think now’s the time to bring that up with Ryan. 

He’s taking it one step at a time. Ryan curled against him like this is big enough that, if he’d been asked, Bob would’ve guessed it ever happening was impossible. Ryan has his nose and forehead pressed against Bob’s chest, breathing deep and even. His left arm is tucked between them, his right hand on Bob’s hip, and he looks relaxed for the first time ever. Looking at that, Bob’s starting to doubt if there’s anything impossible where Ryan Ross is concerned. 

The buzzer sounds and there’s a slow build of noise as the inmates come in from the yard. Bob doesn’t move, just drapes his arm over Ryan’s shoulder. It anchors them both to the bunk to wait for Gerard and Frank to come back, content to stay exactly where they are until count and lockdown. 

Gerard stares at them with huge eyes when he walks in. His mouth turns down for a second, then curls up in a half smile. Then he grabs his sketchbook from his locker, nods at Bob and sneaks out, positively beaming like the giant teddy bear he actually is under all that long black hair. Bob’s fairly sure he owes Gerard his dessert next time they’re in the cafeteria and for like, the next five years. 

Frank doesn’t say anything until the next morning at breakfast. He slides in next to Bob while Ryan’s still in line for food and grins at him like a dope, poking him in the side over and over until Bob reacts.

“What?”

“So, Ryan slept well last night,” Frank says, his shit-eating grin seeping into his tone.

“Okay. And?”

“And dibs on best man at your big, gay, jailhouse wedding.”

If they were outside, this would be when he’d introduce Frank’s face to his plate of eggs and grits. But inside there’s appearances to keep, so he resists the urge. “No disrespect, boss, but fuck you.”

Frank grins and mocks wiping away tears. “I’m just so happy for you.”

Bob doesn’t say anything then. He doesn’t say anything as the days roll by, either. He’s too busy trying to catalogue the way things are changing and making contingencies for them. 

The shift doesn’t really happen in a loud way. It’s just that every few days, during the precious little free, unscheduled time that inmates are given, he and Ryan will fall back to one of the cells (usually Bob’s because Gerard is almost always in the chapel, and he and Bob have officially switched beds) and try and figure each other out. He knows he owes Frank for the hacks not interrupting them. He can’t imagine that’s cheap. He doesn’t even want to think about the number of favors he’s going to owe before he gets out.

But Ryan’s putting himself back together right in front of Bob’s eyes. When Gerard invites him along to the drug and alcohol counseling he attends, Ryan goes with him. The shrunken clothes are replaced by pants and shirts that actually fit. Day by day, the amount of skin his makeup covers decreases. With the armor goes more of the ice in his gaze, the bitter set of his shoulders, and the frequency of the drug use – all a little at a time, but steadily. It’s hard to care about a small thing like favors in the face of all that.

Of course, it takes about ten seconds for the other inmates to notice. There’s not all that fucking much to do in prison, all day, every day. A little novelty goes a long way. Gossip and rumor move through Janick faster than a tenth grade study hall full of cheerleaders. 

Most people don’t give a shit beyond the fact that, finally, there’s something new to talk about since Jimmy Urine got back from a week in the hole for possession contraband. There are enough who do to keep Bob on guard, though. Saporta looks at him like he wants to draw blood, while the Eastside Boys, the Aryans and the Indulgences just seem disappointed to have lost their toy, but content enough to wait for him to get bored, so they can pick it back up again. None of them seem to realize that he’s not going to get bored with Ryan any time this century. 

The only surprise, and really he should’ve been expecting it, is when Wentz corners him in a hallway. He’s surprisingly pushy for his size. “Hurt him and I’ll kill you.”

“Duly noted.”

“I’m serious. You have no fucking idea.”

“I have some. How about you take care of yours, and I’ll take care of mine, and we’ll leave it at that,” Bob says, glancing at Stumph, who’s waiting at the other end of the hall with Trohman and Hurley.

“Bryar.” His name is grated out through clenched teeth. It’s a threat, but Bob gets it. He’s done it. 

“Wentz,” he says with a nod, and moves past him without another word, making his way to his people. 

Bob finds them at a table in the common room, playing cards in hand. Ryan’s arguing with Frank over the rules for a game in the Rummy family. They’re bickering over the jack of hearts, in particular. “You can’t have it if you’re not going to use it as soon as you pick it up, man, so,” Ryan tugs on the card, “let it go.”

“I don’t know what whacked out rules they play with in Vegas, but on this side of the country, you can take what you need when you know you’ll need it later. I’m gonna need it later, and I got it first.”

Ryan heaves a fake sigh and releases the jack. “Fine, if you want to win by cheating. I bet that’ll be super satisfying.” 

He grins at Frank, smug and triumphant, when Frank flicks the jack at him. “Evil,” Frank mutters but there’s no venom behind it. His eyes dart up to Bob and he says “Bob, go tell a CO to get the Father. He’s evil and we need an exorcism like, two hands ago.” 

Ryan glances to the right over his shoulder when Frank says Bob’s name and the smirk on his face blooms. It’s kind of amazing to watch his smile go from calculated to something real. “He’s just bitter I’m winning,” he says as Bob sits down between them. Frank flips an E tattooed middle finger at Ryan and draws another card.

There’s a few of Frank’s cousins at the table to the right and even more, along with some other extended Family members who Bob’s worked with before, spread around the room. There are Cobras and Indulgences and a few Aryans in the rec room too, but as they are now, a solid dozen of them clustered together, it’s one of the safest places in Janick for any of them. 

It makes Bob relax a hair and slide an arm around the back of Ryan’s chair. He’s in the fold but he’s not Italian, so the rules don’t apply to him the same way they do to Frankie. No one looks twice when he slides a hand into the hair at the nape of Ryan’s neck.

“What do you guys think about a roommate switch?” Bob asks. The way Ryan’s hand freezes over the deck is barely noticeable before he picks a card, but Bob sees it.

Then Ryan shrugs. “I don’t know. Way puts those creepy drawings up on the walls, but I guess I could get used to it, if you guys want to room together.”

Frank snorts. “Dude, are you being obtuse on purpose, or are you just stupid?”

Ryan frowns. “What?”

“Okay, stupid it is. Lucky you’re cute.”

“Boss,” Bob bites out and it’s a warning. 

Frank just sighs and shakes his head. “Why would he want to room with me? I don’t want to sleep with him.” Frank grins at them both, then winks at Bob. “You know I love you Bob, but I’m spoken for.”

Ryan’s neck goes tense beneath Bob’s hand. He squeezes gently and bumps his shoulder against Ryan’s. “If you want to, I uh, I talked to Schechter and he’ll sign off on the transfer.”

He doesn’t look at Ryan as he waits. It’s been a long time since he’s cared for anyone half as much as he cares about Ryan. If this were the real world… well, someone like Ryan wouldn’t be with a guy like him in the first place. If he were though, this would be the part where they would be moving in together. Bob would be doing things like finding out if Ryan has an opinion about getting a dog, and trying to figure out how to fit their stuff together into one space. It’s not the real world though. Circumstances aren’t what they could be, so Bob tampers down that thought and does his best to wait, blank and patient. 

Bob hears Ryan swallow and there a really shitty split second where he thinks he’s going to say no, but a knee bumps his under the table and he can feel Ryan’s neck move as he nods. “Yeah. That’d be cool.”

“Okay,” Bob says, finally letting himself look. 

Ryan’s wearing blue eyeliner, thick but contained to the edges of his eyelids, and a thin sheen of lip-gloss that reflects the light as Ryan’s lip quirks upwards. “Okay.”

Frank’s smile is the very definition of shit eating. He’s got an elbow propped on the cheap plastic table, his chin resting on the heel of his palm. “You guys are my favorite soap. Seriously, you’re better than _Days of Our Lives._ ”

“Shut it, boss.”

“Seconded. Also,” Ryan lays down the remainder of his hand, throwing one card face down on the pile. “That’s Gin. Again. Pay up.” 

Frank opens and closes his mouth like a dying trout a few times. Then he sputters, fishes out his pack of cigarettes and two crumpled twenties, and hands them over. Ryan pockets the bills and passes the cigarettes to Bob, which pretty much makes it official. 

The transfer won’t go through until the next day so Bob spends the time between lockdown and lights-out helping Gerard take his art off the walls. The grislier ones, werewolves ripping jugulars out of the throats of hapless victims, vampires licking blood off of dirty floors and shit like that, he watches Way burn them over the toilet.

“It’s purging. It defeats the whole point to take karma like that with you,” Way says with a shrug when Bob gives him a _what the fuck_ look that lasts a little too long. 

“I thought you were Catholic.”

“I am,” Way says, holding his cigarette to another picture and watching it ignite. “It’s why I’m big on ritual.” When it reaches the point of burning his fingers he drops it, then goes to his stack of papers and holds it out to Bob. “You should burn this one.”

It’s a line drawing of men, two large figures holding down a third while a fourth lingers in the background. It’s a little brittle, like maybe it’s a couple years older than the ones on the wall. Bob frowns at it and tilts his head, trying to make sense of Way’s sharp lines.

“Burn it,” Gerard repeats, holding up his prison-regulation lighter, palm up. “You and Ross are getting past what Saporta did to him so-” he thrusts it forward again. “It’ll help.”

Bob blinks down at the paper, then up at Way. “Saporta, wait, what about Saporta?”

“The thing with Klansinski and Johnson raping Ryan with that spoon, before he and Wentz split up. The Cobras don’t know I know that was Saporta’s doing but I hear shit.” Gerard shakes his head, a sad little smile tugging at his mouth, and keeps on talking. “He and Beckett were laughing about it like a year ago. It was like they didn’t even care that I was right there.”

There’s a bang on the wall between the cells and Bob’s heart fucking stops. He’s heard Frank talking through the wall on more than one occasion, shouted back to him once or twice when things were important enough. The walls aren’t that thick and fucking Ryan is over there; Ryan who spent years at Saporta’s feet, looking for comfort. Bob looks at the sketch in his hands, then down at the charred flecks from the other drawings, and feels like throwing up.

Way doesn’t seem to notice as he runs a hand through his long ratty hair, lost in the memory. “I couldn’t get the image out of my head. I mean, it’s so fucked up. So I drew it out and put it away. But you should fucking burn it now. It shouldn’t stay with you guys now that you’re moving past it.” He looks up at Bob, finally, and his eyes get huge. “Oh, fuck, you didn’t know?” His pale skin gets even paler. “Ross didn’t know? I thought you figured it out. I thought that was why you two- Shit. ”

Bob doesn’t answer with words. His whole body is bow-tight. For a second, all he can manage to do is shake his head. Then he drops the sketch, goes to the wall, and bangs on it twice. “Ryan?” He pounds on it two more times with his fist. “Ryan, you don’t have to say anything, just hit the wall twice if you’re okay.”

There are two sharp slams against the wall near his face. Bob presses his ear to the cool metal, and thinks he can hear Frank talking fast, and Ryan’s clipped words in a near growl that are both low enough that they’re unintelligible. He’d hit the wall again, but it’s a fucking miracle they haven’t already attracted the hacks with this racket. 

The entire cellblock is moments away from lights out, and Bob doesn’t want them dragging Ryan to the hole for being disruptive, or something. Tomorrow he’ll be able to reach out to him, but tonight there’s a fucking wall between them.

“Lights out!” the officer on duty shouts and, a split second later, the Decaydance is immersed in darkness. There are a few lights every few dozen feet outside the cell, but it’s dark enough to feel oppressive.

“I’m sorry,” Way says, pulling away and clambering up onto the top bunk and away from Bob. “I thought you’d figured it out, that you knew. You seemed like you did.”

Bob doesn’t say anything. He closes his eyes against the dark and spreads his palm out. He slaps the wall once, a desperate effort to make sure that Ryan knows he’s there. He’s met with a gently echoing rendition of “shave and a haircut”, that is probably Frank’s way of assuring him that everything’s okay. It does absolutely nothing to reassure him.

In the morning, the buzzer goes off for wake-up call and Ryan’s already putting on his makeup when the cell doors slide open. Bob wants to cry at the sight of him standing in front of the cell’s tiny mirror, a thick band of purple eye-shadow going from temple to temple. He’s holding a small container of liquid eyeliner in one hand and is painting small black birds on his face with careful, precise strokes. 

“Ryan,” Bob says, because there’s nothing else he can say. It’s not enough, though. Not by a damn sight.

“Hey Bob,” Ryan says, not looking at him as he closes the eyeliner and sets it down carefully. He reaches out and picks up a tube of lipstick next, and Bob crosses the room before he can apply it. 

He hears, more than sees, Frank sneak out behind him and head towards the cafeteria. He’s too focused on turning Ryan gently but firmly by the shoulders to care much. He wants to shake him like he used to, but Ryan’s delicate strength seems almost fragile right now. 

“Ryan-” he beings again, then breaks off. He doesn’t know what he wants to say. Instead of talking, he kisses Ryan’s clean, dry lips. He needs to taste them before Ryan covers them again in the thick red shade he’s holding. He’s still with Bob enough that, instead of stiffening or pulling away, he melts into it and kisses back, grabbing the hair at the back of Bob’s head with the lipstick-free hand. 

A hack smacks his club against a wall near their door, jolting them apart. “Break it the fuck up, you two. Get to fucking breakfast if you wanna eat before lunch.”

Ryan steps back and rolls on the lipstick with a speed and skill that would be impressive, if it didn’t make something inside Bob crack open. He gives the hack that slippery not-smile as he slides past. 

Bob follows him and catches him by the arm before he can reach the cafeteria. Ryan sighs and turns, looking annoyed and impatient and completely shuttered. “I’m hungry, Bob, what?”

There are a million answers to that. “Are you okay?” “Talk to me.” “Please, go wash your face.” “I’m going to make this right.” All of them are options. 

Instead, Bob goes with the thing Ryan wants to hear least, but needs to hear most. He takes a breath and commits to it, pushing down all the things telling him that he shouldn’t. “I love you, Ryan,” he says, fast, direct and straight forward, like ripping off a band-aid.

His reaction is about what Bob is expecting. Ryan jerks out of his grip and shoves him away. He steps forward and shoves him again. “Don’t all right?” Ryan chokes out, stumbling away. “You can’t do this to me now, so just fucking don’t.”

Bob doesn’t try and stop him. He just follows him in to breakfast and keeps him in his sights. Things are going to get very bad, very fast, and he wants to be prepared. That’s why he said it, even though he knows the timing was a fucking disaster of Titanic proportions. It doesn’t matter. He wants Ryan to have the knowledge that he loves him, even if Ryan doesn’t want it. Just in case.


	14. Chapter 14

**Gabriel Saporta**

Things are coming together. He had a vision recently, of Ryan Ross dripping in blood and smeared with semen hanging from a slithering snake, arms hooked back and over its thick body. Gabe had come back to himself, hard and aching, and knowing his favorite toy was finally ready for proper use. 

Gabe murmurs to Bill as he fucks his mouth and Bill moans. He looks up with eyes that are full of smoke and shadow, and sucks harder. Gabe reads approval there, though he doesn’t need it.

After all, Ryan is pulling away from his protector, slowly but surely. Gabe is calling to him through the Cobra and he’s coming. Every coat of paint, every inch of space between him and Bryar, is another step towards Gabe. 

That the two share a cell is irrelevant. It’s Gabe whose eyes Ryan catches. All he needs to do is wait, and his prey will come to him. They always do. 

He only has to wait two weeks after Ryan and Way switch cells before Ryan arrives at his table. His eyes are downcast and his pretty mouth is painted a blood shade of red. It makes Gabe think of his vision and he’s fairly sure it’s a sign, if there ever was one. 

“Gabe,” Ryan says, his teeth worrying that red lip. “Gabe, please.”

“Anything.”

“I’m tired of waiting. I’ve been waiting forever. And Bryar.” He watches Ryan’s slim throat work as he swallows. “He thinks I belong with- to him.”

“I’ve seen,” Gabe murmurs, holding out a hand. Ryan’s whole body shudders as he leans into the touch. He shudders, and Gabe smiles knowing that his touch can do that. It feeds the Cobra and makes the hum of power buzz through his veins. “We can’t have that, can we?” 

“No,” Ryan mumbles, eyes still shut. A tear forces its way out and Gabe’s smile widens. His boy is so pretty when he cries.

“I’ll arrange it with the hacks, Ryan.“ He strokes his fingers down Ryan’s cheek, rubbing the colorful tear into his skin. It makes the young man shiver again and squeeze his eyes shut. “In a few days time, you’ll be an initiate of the Church of Hot Addiction. Now,” He spreads his legs under the table and takes Ryan’s hand and presses it to his groin. “Show me how much you want divinity.”

Ryan has the softest hands of any man Gabe’s ever been with, even better than Bill. He goes slow and lazy and when Gabe comes, Ryan doesn’t have to be told twice to lick his hand clean. It leaves a sheen on his lipstick that Gabe admires for a moment before sending him away. 

Officer Blackinton’s one of his. Most of the groups have Officers who sympathize. The Indulgences have Claret, the Eastside boys have West, Schechter seems to like the fringe groups – Way, Quinn, and then Wentz’s little crew, and Fazzi’s got ties to the Italians through the Lazzarra Family. Having a hack on your side, even if you have to bribe them, can make the difference between success and failure in Janick. 

They are the gatekeepers and the keymasters. Through Blackinton, Gabe is going to get a proper initiation for his favorite acolyte - the place and the privacy. Bill doesn’t offer to help organize it like he normally would. Jealousy, Gabe supposes. He doesn’t like the idea that he may lose his place as Gabe’s favorite. 

“You sure you want to share him with the Aryans?” Bill asks, his long form leaning against the wall of the cell as they wait for lights out. “They made a mess of him last time.”

“I don’t have enough followers to make a proper showing,” Gabe sighs, stretching out on his bunk. “In my Church, the entire congregation would taste him. Men, women, everyone.” 

He can’t help but smile at the memories of his last initiation, the circle of bodies pressed tight as one of his followers found the Cobra through their service. He misses his parishioners; misses his Church and his people and the way things were when they were good. 

Victoria says that they’re making good progress. She’s pulling all the strings she can reach and some above her, and her conservative estimate on his appeal going through is eighteen months. He has faith in her. She’s a devotee of the Cobra, a lawyer beyond compare, and his near equal. 

The Aryans, on the other hand, are not even close. They’re a necessary evil. “Balance must be kept, William. Allies have to be placated, but they’re just ceremonial.”

“Yeah,” Bill mutters, insolence rolling off him in waves. If Gabe cared to move, he’d beat it out of him. “Right, I’m sure they’ll get that.”

“The ones invited to partake will. I’m not extending it to the entire Brotherhood, just a handful from the leadership to supplement worthy Cobras.”

“Whatever you say, heavenly father,” Bill mutters and turns to lean against the door, and peer out through the bars in the window.

Heavenly father? Gabe likes that. It makes him grin and his body tingle. He whispers the title to Victoria when she comes to review the case. She beams at him and murmurs it as she talks him through a fast and dirty orgasm, the sole of her stocking clad foot pressed to his dick under the table in the visitors’ room. Afterwards they sit close, knees bumping each other under the table. Her pussy is close enough to smell. He brushes his knuckles against the wetness there, and he can still taste her on his tongue when Blackinton walks him back to D-Block.

“Tomorrow, the gym, while the cafeteria is locked down for dinner,” Blackinton says quietly.

“You’re a good man, Ryland.”

Blackinton makes the sign of the Cobra with his fingers and nods. He’s a loyal convert. He’s done everything Gabe’s asked of him. Gabe will ensure he gets his turn, just like all the rest of the faithful. 

It goes so smoothly, it’s impossible to ignore the hand of the Divine at work in it. Suarez herds Ryan away from Bryar and the Italians five minutes before the buzzer for dinner goes off, and guides him to the collected group gathered in the gym. Gabe’s waiting for him with all of the Cobras and a handful of Aryans. All told, there are less than two dozen, which isn’t as many as he’d like, but for the time and the place, it’s a sufficient showing.

Gabe smiles when Ryan arrives. He takes in the figures standing in a cluster on the scuffed basketball court and when Blackinton closes the door to the gym and locks it, Ryan’s eyes get wide. His fear and anticipation are like a drug in the air, more intoxicating than anything Gabe’s taken.

“Take off your clothes for me, Ryan,” Gabe murmurs, stepping forward, and looking down at the younger man. Ryan looks up at him with dark eyes, shaking already.

He runs the back of his index finger down Ryan’s clenched jaw, through thick base on his skin. His dark skin comes away covered in peach colored powder. Gabe can’t help but imagine what the blue shadow on Ryan’s face will look like smeared with tears and come. He can’t wait to see it. 

Gabe steps back and watches as Ryan pulls his shirt over his head with shaking hands. His time and effort has paid off in obedience, and he can’t help but smile. Ryan steps out of his pants and underwear, toes off his shoes, balls the whole mess up and tosses it out of the way. Then he stands, naked, chin tilted up in what Gabe would assume was defiance if he didn’t know Ryan so well. 

“Hands and knees,” he orders and Ryan goes. He lets his head drop and Novarro comes to stand before him. He taps Ryan’s chin with two fingers, curled into the Cobra fangs. Ryan’s lips part like clouds and Gabe hums quietly with pleasure as he watches.

He nods to Suarez who kneels to take Ryan from behind. The group pulls closer as he spits in his hand, slicks himself minimally and thrusts in. Ryan grunts and gags around Novarro at the shock. Obviously, Bryar hasn’t been using him as thoroughly as he could have. Gabe shakes his head and murmurs a prayer to the Cobra, his followers echoing him as they watch his lieutenants break his pet in. 

The Aryans just sigh and a couple of the more blatant ones rub themselves through their jeans. Gabe wants them gone, so when his men finish – Suarez inside him, Novarro on Ryan’s face and in his hair – he waves them forward. The sooner they use him, the sooner they’ll fall back to the edges of the gym to stand guard and let him finish his ceremony. 

They pull Ryan by his hair and they fuck his throat and ass hard and fast. Ryan’s eyes drift shut and the noises that come out of his mouth have nothing to do with lust. It’s his sacrifice for the Church of Hot Addiction and it pays off as the members of the Brotherhood fall, one by one, to the latter day pleasures. 

Ryan falls onto his elbows when they let him go, body heaving as he gasps for breath and marked with hand shapes on his hips and shoulders. They don’t have time to waste to let him recover, though. In the Church this would go on for hours, days even. But in Janick they only have until the buzzer sounds to release the other inmates from the cafeteria to finish. Gabe nods once and the rest of the Cobras fall on Ryan. They fuck him fast and hard from both ends, slamming in quick and dirty so that everyone can have their turn before time runs out. Pants, curses, grunts, the sound of skin slapping skin, and Ryan’s muffled groans are the music of Gabe’s god. 

Ryan is filthy when Gabe’s men finally step back. He’s covered in sweat, come, and blood in places where someone bit down on his shoulders, dug too deep into his hips, or back with their fingernails. He is limp when Novarro and Suarez turn him over onto his back and stretch him out, each of them taking one of his arms and pinning it to the wood floor of the court with their hands and knees, leaving him open and vulnerable for Gabe’s perusal.  
He doesn’t look as long as he’d like. He’d kill for a camera, a nice contraband number – high res and digital so that he could share this picture with his followers. But he settles for memorizing the image before him as he rolls the condom Victoria smuggled to him over himself. 

That Ryan’s body is pliant as he slides inside easily isn’t surprising. He’s slick and loose from use, but the power of seeing him like this triples the existing pleasure. Gabe drops his head pressing his lips to Ryan’s ear. “Give yourself to the Cobra, Ryan. Let it save you.”

“Save me?”

Ryan’s laughter is harsh in his ear. It’s deep, ragged laughter that echoes through Ryan’s chest into his and makes Gabe pull back a few inches so that he can see Ryan’s face. It’s a sticky mess, but through it Ryan fixes him with furious eyes and teeth bared in an unhinged smile that makes Gabe look twice. 

“Please. At least try to be original,” Ryan laughs again. “You know, I figured out you were a sick, twisted fuck but I didn’t know you were a deluded idiot, too.”

“You will shut your fucking mouth, Ross,” Gabe snarls, his fingers digging into Ryan’s thighs viciously, looking for a whimper or a flinch. The pretense of kindness evaporates with his patience. “Shut the fuck up.”

Ryan gives him neither. He just smirks and licks his lips, taking away drying semen and lipstick with his tongue. “You really think this bothers me?” Ryan’s lips quirk even more, curling back into something that’s almost a snarl. “You think it fucking touches me at all?” He practically purrs it.

Gabe slams his hips forward hard, to prove that it does. The movement makes Ryan’s breath hitch just a little, but nothing more. The arrogance and impertinence makes Gabe’s entire body twist in anger. “It does. I made you, bitch.” He fucks into Ryan as hard as he can. “I can break you.”

“You couldn’t hurt me again with a fucking blow torch and a pair of pliers; just like you couldn’t get me off with a vibrator and a fucking map,” Ryan hisses. Then he curls up as much as he can with his arms pinned, presses his mouth against Gabe’s cheek and whispers, “My turn to get a piece of you, motherfucker.”

His teeth sink in and rip. Gabe doesn’t realize he’s bleeding, hurting, until Ryan grins at him with blood covered lips. Gabe gasps through the sudden, almost-blinding pain and tries to clear his mind. But then Ryan spits a chunk of Gabe’s own bloody flesh back into his face, giggling with lips that are a shade even the best makeup company can’t replicate. 

Gabe’s vision and world goes red with rage. The smacking sound of his fist hitting Ryan’s face isn’t nearly as satisfying as it should be. It makes Ryan’s head snap to the side, but he’s still laughing. It makes Gabe’s skin crawl and his blood boil, but the force of the impact doesn’t seem to matter because the fucker is still laughing. 

Sweat and a veritable river of blood streams down Gabe’s face as he unthinkingly pulls out and moves up so that he can throw more force behind his punches and get in a few shots with his elbows and knees. Suarez and Novarro stare. He can feel their eyes burning into his torn skin, but they don’t let go of Ryan’s arms. They don’t stop him as he screams into every blow until the laughter finally stops, and Ryan’s eyes roll back into his head before sliding shut. 

Blood mixes with the makeup to add purple to the battered mess of Ryan’s face. He wants to make it worse. He wants to see pieces of Ryan’s skull under the skin, feel his brain squishy and wet under his knuckles, wants to hear his last wheezing breath around the blood he dared to steal. 

Gabe grunts as he works towards that end until a whistle blows, high and shrill. He doesn’t look up as people shout until three pairs of hands wrap around his arms and waist, pulling him off and back. He writhes against it like a rabid dog, desperate for his kill.

“Go down, Saporta! Just go down!” one of the hacks screams. Gabe has no intention of listening, like someone as pathetic as a prison guard could hold any authority over him. 

A club blow lands at back of his neck sending a wave of pain up and down Gabe’s back. It takes nearly a half dozen more before he finally does go down, and his world goes black. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Peter Wentz III**

Father Toro’s office smells like church incense, coffee, and lemon scented disinfectant spray. It’s small and dark and cozy. Pete would dig it if it weren’t for all the religious shit, and the fact that entering this room usually means a head shrinking. But after almost three days of lockdown, anything is better than staring at the same four walls for one more minute. 

Not that he doesn’t love Patrick and all, but Pete goes stir-crazy easy. He’s pretty sure shit like that violates his Eighth Amendment rights. Of course, the reprieve from the lockdown comes with the knowledge that whatever’s happened is bad enough that the warden doesn’t want to leave it to the hacks to tell them.

Pete’s sprawled in one of the two chairs across the desk from where Father Toro usually sits. Iero’s in the other, sitting up ramrod straight like a kid at a piano lesson. They’re both watching Bryar pace the room like a huge jungle cat in a too-small cage, and waiting for the Father to come back with word on Ryan’s condition.

Two days, sixteen hours, and about forty-five minutes; that’s how long it’s been since Beckett tipped off a hack about the goddamn “initiation” Saporta was having in the gym. The slimy mercenary fuck waited until it was almost too late to tell Claret and by the time she, Schechter, and a half a dozen of the other COs could get there, everyone’d had their turn and Saporta was pretty much beating Ryan to death. 

Pete hadn’t seen it go down. He knows that Iero and Bryar didn’t either. But all three of them saw the COs roll Ryan past the cafeteria on a gurney, at a run. That had been all anyone had seen, before the whole fucking prison went into lockdown. That many inmates organizing like they had was a fucking security risk, regardless of the victim.

“Bob,” Frank says, finally leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Bob, it’ll be okay. Just, here, take my seat and-”

“Shut up,” Bryar snarls. “Just shut the fuck up, Frank.”

Pete’s never heard Bryar call Iero anything but “boss” in all the months they’ve been here. It jangles wrong in his head. Iero actually flinches. The tiny bastard also doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone. Pete winces as Iero tries again. “Bob, he’s okay. He’s going to be fine.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t know shit,” Bryar snarls, turning on him like a cornered animal. But his blue eyes are bright in the light, with what Pete thinks might be the beginning of tears that Bryar would never let fall. Not in front of people. “The two of you have been fucking baiting Saporta for months.” He points an accusing finger at Iero. “You wanted this.”

Iero’s on his feet in an instant. He manages to look imposing, even though Bryar has more than half a foot and at least fifty pounds of solid muscle on him. “Who asked you to take care of him in the first place? Of the two of us, who gave a shit first? It wasn’t you Bob so shut up, take a deep breath-” He grabs Bob by the shirt front and shoves him into the chair. “And sit the fuck down. Because he’s going to be fucking fine. You hear me?”

It’s like Iero gave him permission or something, because Bryar just crumples. It’s fucking horrific to watch, the way he folds in on himself and presses his hands to his face. Pete can hear him breathing, deep and ragged, and wonders when the fuck this happened, where the hell he was.

“I should have been there,” Bryar chokes into his palms. Oh yeah, Pete knows that feeling. He’s been there, lived that, trashed the t-shirt. He’s only been feeling it every fucking day since Klasinski and Johnson first got their hands on Ryan. He doesn’t say it, but he’s been thinking it, too.

“I should’ve realized,” Pete agrees, trying to figure out where he lost the thread. “I should’ve known. I know that fucker’s movements better than anyone, and he’d never miss a meal like that. I wasn’t paying close enough attention, or I’d have said.”

“No,” Iero snaps, leaning over Bob. “Neither of you could’ve done anything. Ever. So just…” He sighs and waves his hands through the air. “Fuck, play the quiet game until the Padre gets back. Ready, go.”

Pete’s so taken aback, he actually snaps his mouth shut. Bob doesn’t say anything either, but he reaches up and smacks the back of Iero’s head so hard that the sound echoes through the small room. Iero curses and jerks away.

“Jesus fuck, Bob.” He rubs the back of his head and frowns. “You feel better now?”

“Nope,” Bob says curtly. He pulls a cigarette out of his pocket and shakes his head as he slips it between his lips. Pete doesn’t even smoke but he wishes he did because the simple act of pulling out a lighter, flicking it on, and lighting the cigarette seems to soothe Bob a little. 

Of course that’s when the door opens and Father Toro shuffles in. He’s wearing tired looking jeans and an Iron Maiden t-shirt under a black hoodie. It’s the first time Pete’s ever seen the guy out of the collar, and it’s a little disorienting. He looks like the kind of guys Pete used to party with, back when he was a teenager, if maybe a little more hardcore. Fuck, he wishes it were any other day so he could laugh at the idea of a hardcore priest. 

The three of them watch in silence as the Father flops into his chair and rubs his eyes. His curly hair is out of the tie he usually uses to hold it back, and he’s got about two days worth of beard stubble. “No smoking in my office,” Father Toro says, not opening his eyes. 

“Like Jesus cares if I smoke,” Bryar mutters.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph don’t give a crap, but I’m this close to crawling over this desk and sucking the nicotine directly out of your lungs. So, put it out.” He drags his palms over his face and pulls them away to see Bob put it out on the sole of his shoe. Father Toro sighs. “Weeks like this, I wish I hadn’t quit.”

“How’s he doing Father?” Iero asks. Of course he does, because the little fuck has a habit of asking what no one else has the balls to. 

Pete gets a little sick at how long the Father is quiet. He seems to be collecting himself, which is never a good sign. If Ryan’s dead, he’s going to kill Saporta. Well, he’s going to stand guard and step back while Bryar kills him, because he’s got a feeling that getting in the way would get him, at best, some broken parts. 

“It’s… It’s not good. He’s on a ventilator but-” 

“He can’t breathe?” Pete blurts, sickness roiling up through him and making the room rock like a dingy on a fucking tidal wave. “He can’t fucking breathe on his own?”

“Not yet,” Father Toro says with a solemn shake of his head. “The impact to his face and the way Saporta had him, by the throat, it damaged his airways. And one of the blows to the chest he got in broke Ryan’s ribs inward.” Father Toro’s skin turns vaguely green. “They think one of them punctured a lung. The doctors said he coded in surgery before he was moved to the ICU at St. Jude’s.” 

“Coded as in died,” Bob says, his gaze fixed on his cigarette, still pressed against the rubber sole of his shoe. 

“His heart stopped, yes, but they were able to revive him. He’s in ICU now and he’s getting the best care possible, I swear as Christ is my witness.”

“Bob,” Iero says. It’s a warning and an assurance. 

Pete watches Bob’s face but he doesn’t even twitch. He’s just blank. His lips barely move when he speaks. “What else?”

“With the way he was attacked there’s no way to know if there’s any-” Father Toro stops and takes a breath. “Any long term damage until the swelling around his brain goes down. I know you were all close to Ryan, and I thought you should hear it from me.”

There’s a long pause as that sinks in. Pete’s never really dealt with anything like it before, but he can’t help but see Gutierrez’s face in his mind, his slack right side and his slurred, semi-incoherent speech. The idea of Ryan ending up like that makes the bile rise in the back of his throat. 

This shouldn’t be happening. Saporta should never have had room to touch him in the first place. If he’d just kept his fucking promise to keep the kid safe, none of this would’ve fucking happened. 

“Has he woken up?” Iero asks. “Does he need anything?”

“No. He, uh, he hadn’t regained consciousness at all when I left. If he wakes up, he won’t be alone. The Warden’s given his friend Spencer permission to wait with him, as we haven’t been able to reach any family. I’ll be heading back over there tomorrow morning.”

Bryar pushes to his feet, tucking the half dead cigarette behind his ear. “That it?” His voice is cold, and flat, and Pete sighs because yeah, this is a normal reaction to being told the guy you’re shacked up with may be a vegetable. 

“You can stay and we can talk about this,” the Father offers. “I think it’d do all of us good.”

“No, thanks,” Bob says, pulling out a fresh cigarette. “I need a smoke.” He waits until he’s out of the room, Iero hot on his heels, before lighting it. 

Father Toro watches them go, then looks at Pete and sighs. “I guess you need a smoke, too.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“So you want to talk?”

Pete shrugs but inside he’s screaming yes, please, let me. He should say no. He should go back to his fucking cell, and bully Patrick into singing to him for a while, and push it all out of his mind until the lockdown ends. But Father Toro looks like what he is under the man of God shtick; a guy only a couple years older than Pete, who just wants to help. “Yeah. I really fucking do.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

Pete wishes he had long sleeves to worry, nail polish to pick on. He needs something to do with his hands when he talks about Ryan. He’d been on the D-Block for about a year when Ryan arrived, a couple weeks after he’d turned nineteen and busted on first time drug charges that got out of hand. 

The judge had given Ryan a harsher sentence than he deserved. Especially since everyone from the judge, right on down to the bailiff, knew that he didn’t have a previous record; just a stupid college kid who made a mistake. But he was a stupid college kid who had taken the hard fall for not ratting out his friend, who Ryan told him had just turned eighteen and “didn’t deserve any of this shit.” 

So instead of spending his freshman year getting wasted and fucking hot coeds, he’d ended up in Janick for his loyalty. That had been the most notable aspect of Ryan when Pete first met him. The kid was fucking loyal and Pete dug that. The stubbornness, the dark humor, and the almost obstinate pride were just bonuses. 

Bottom line, Pete couldn’t hang someone who’d mortgaged their own life for a friend out to dry. He did have some principles, after all. At least a few. 

Besides, Pete liked him. Hell, he’d seen potential in Ryan. He was smart and creative and didn’t mind standing back from the spotlight, which leant itself to lots of success in a way that was completely different from the kind of organization Pete ran, but no less impressive.

The kid wanted to be a writer, or a musician, or one of those kid dreams you let go of once the bars close behind you for the first time. But before Klasinski and Johnson fucked him up, Ryan used to talk about it. He used to write and when he did, it made Pete remember the way he used to bleed onto paper before he learned that writing anything down put you at risk. Sometimes, not often but occasionally, it’d remind Pete to give it a try, too, and they’d trade work – like they were in homeroom rather than prison. That, more than anything, had drawn Pete to him, made him want to cultivate him, into a second in command, then into the kind of man who could run his own operation – whatever that might be.

Most of all, Ryan was a friend. He was a friend who was weaker, and Pete had always taken care of his friends when they needed him. Except with Ryan, Pete had failed so completely he might as well have been the one to attack him. He spews it out in the form of word vomit and Father Toro just nods along. When he’s done he slumps in his chair and wishes for a drink or the freedom to break something.

“I don’t think that telling you this isn’t your fault any more than it’s Ryan’s is going to resonate with you is it, Pete?”

“No.”

Father Toro folds his hands and looks at him, trying to see through him to something. Pete’s not sure what. He can’t tell if that’s a priest look, or a shrink look, or what. But it’s unnerving. “Well then, I suggest that you take that guilt and use it as motivation to do what you can to prepare yourself and your camp to make his return as smooth as possible.”

“You think he’s going to wake up?”

Father Toro sighs and fishes in his desk for something. He comes out with a cloth covered rubber band and pulls his hair back. When he’s done, he rubs his face again before folding his hands on the desk.

“Father?”

“I think,” Father Toro says carefully, “That sending him you and Frank and Bob were God’s way of looking after Ryan, and that if he’s is able to heal from this, he will.”

“And the uncertainty in that doesn’t drive you crazy?” Pete demands. “That doesn’t make you fucking nuts?”

“Well, yeah, of course it does. That’s where the faith thing comes in,” Father Toro says with a small smile. “You’d be amazed how much that helps.”

“You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not. I think anyone who’s been in Janick more than thirty seconds can understand that keeping anything positive in here is like trying to keep a snowball rolling through Hell. But if you don’t try, you definitely won’t succeed. You get points for trying, with God if no one else.”

Pete rolls his eyes. “The big guy can cash that shit in any time, thanks.”

“I’m sure He will when the time’s right,” The Father assures him as a CO raps on the glass window in the door. “I think that means you’ve worn out the Warden’s patience and flexibility where the lockdown is concerned.”

“I do that to people.”

“Yes, you certainly do,” Father Toro agrees with a chuckle. “Thank you for trying, Pete. It’ll pay off eventually. Trust me. And here, take this.” He pulls a book off a shelf behind his head and hands it to Pete. “It might help pass the time. It doesn’t look like lockdown’s going to be ending any time soon, and I know the book cart hasn’t been around in a week or so.”

“Awesome,” Pete sighs and lets the hack walk him back to his cell without complaint. The book is thick and heavy in his hands and Patrick is sitting on his bunk, legs crossed, waiting for him when he returns.

“How is he?” Patrick asks, without preamble. He’s not much for wasting time, or fucking around. 

“Bad,” Pete sighs, dropping the heavy book onto his own mattress. He looks up through the lenses of Patrick’s glasses into his wide eyes. “Really fucking bad, ‘Trick.”

Patrick slides off the bunk to stand in front of Pete. Pete blinks down at him, feeling fucking exhausted, and shakes his head again. He wants to say something, explain it to Patrick so it can get out of him, but for maybe the first time in his life, there just aren’t words. 

Patrick shocks the hell out of him when he wraps his arms around Pete’s shoulders and neck, and pulls him into the hug he so desperately needs. Pete sinks into it. Patrick smells like stale sweat; they both do after three days with no shower, but Patrick never initiates. Not ever. This is the first time Patrick’s ever reached out first, and Pete finds himself clinging to the fabric on the back of Patrick’s shirt like it’ll keep him from drowning if he just doesn’t let go.

“We’ll get the fucker,” Patrick says, and wow, that wasn’t what Pete was expecting. More platitudes, an _it’ll be all right_ , maybe. But not that. There’s a hard edge to Patrick’s voice that Pete doesn’t think Janick put there. He’s pretty sure it just peeled away the softness that hid it.

“Bryar’s ready to kill something,” Pete says into Patrick’s warm shoulder. “But fucking Saporta’s still in Ad Seg.”

“They won’t keep him there forever,” Patrick mutters and lets go. It hits hard for Patrick, Pete knows, because a few different circumstances, some poor luck, and it’s him who’s in a coma in ICU. Also, Patrick’s got a weird friendship with Bryar that complicates shit even further. “I want to help.”

“Help what? I don’t know if you noticed lockdown.” Pete waves a hand at the small cell. “No one’s doing anything right now.”

“Yeah, thanks Captain Obvious. I hadn’t fucking noticed.” Patrick says, giving him a poke in the side as he steps back. “No, when they let us out. There’s shit to do, Pete. We both know that, and you’re not going to put me on the sidelines again.”

“Help Iero keep Bryar from doing anything before there’s a plan and we’ll call it a day.”

Patrick crosses his arms over his chest. “Bob’s stupid in love with the guy and it sounds like he’s critical. You can’t blame him, I mean, wouldn’t you be ready to bring the place down if it were you?”

 _Yeah, if it were you at St. Jude’s_ , Pete thinks. He’s cagey as fuck as it is, but if it were Patrick? He’d tear down the walls and rip Janick apart brick by brick, along with everything else in his path. 

Patrick’s gone from the cute new meat he happened to get roomed with to the best part of every single fucking day. He doesn’t want to imagine what that being jeopardized would mean, would cost. It’s not a fucking option.

“Leave it to this for now, all right? Don’t go digging for shit to make trouble with.”

“Yeah, no. If Bob asks me for help, I’m going to give it to him.”

“Patrick-“

“Who knows when they’re going to let us out of here and I don’t want to fight with you, Pete, but I’ve been thinking about it. I thought I should let you know, so that you have time to get the fuck over yourself before the lockdown ends.”

“Then you shouldn’t be a stupid fucking ass,” Pete snaps.

“Seriously? That’s the insult you’re going to go with?” Patrick asks, but he’s laughing at Pete. 

If it weren’t such a welcome sight, it’d piss him right the fuck off. But the fear and anxiety and guilt have been so goddamn heavy that Patrick’s smirk, and the light in his eyes, make something in Pete uncoil. 

He sighs and sinks onto his bunk, almost sitting on the book Father Toro gave him. He looks at it and sighs again.

“What?”

Pete holds it up. “Light reading, courtesy of the clergy.”

Patrick squints at it. “ _The Inferno_.”

“Think he was trying to tell me something?” 

“I think I read parts of that in my twelfth grade English class.” He drops down next to Pete and plucks it out of his hands, opening it. “It’s supposed to be pretty good for something written by a dead white guy four hundred years ago.”

“Read it to me?” Pete asks without thinking. He likes Patrick’s voice. It mellows him, keeps him from coming out of his skin like he used to in bursts of calculated and vicious violence. 

He’s a little worried he won’t be able to read it, though. He hasn’t read anything tougher than Salinger since he dropped out in the 9th grade, and he doesn’t want to stumble through the Circles of Hell. Patrick’s got a bachelor’s degree and experience with it already. It’s not the craziest thing to ask for right?

Patrick looks poised to say no. It’s his first response to most of Pete’s requests. He nods instead, and moves to sit against the cinderblock wall, using Pete’s pillow to prop himself up. 

“What the fuck else are we going to do?” Patrick asks. He’s got a good point as he settles himself and opens the book. He starts to read and Pete lets it wash over him. When he rests his head on Patrick’s legs, he counts to thirty before he lets himself relax and sag against him. Patrick makes Pete feel safe for the first time since he was fourteen and his parents sent him off to that fucking prison camp passing as a military school, but the old defenses are still there. 

It’s easier to focus on a dead Roman guy and a trip to Hell than to think about the literal hell they’re living in. The one where Ryan’s breathing through a tube shoved down his throat hooked up to a machine and Saporta is sitting in the hole, waiting to get back to Gen Pop, is more complicated. Focusing on the fiction will keep him from climbing the walls over the reality he can’t control. And who knows, it might give him ideas to pass on to Bryar. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Brian Schechter**

There are times when Brian thinks his job is what the world would be like if the unpopular, loner kids in high school were given clubs and told to keep the cliques in check. That’s assuming that the popular kids were murderers, drug dealers, thieves and rapists, which they might have been in his high school. But the outside is still where he is, even after twenty years.

The peripheral nature of the job means that most of the information Brian has about what’s going on are from observations and secondhand sources. For example, he knows Stumph starts insinuating himself with the Cobras after Jay finally lets Saporta out of Ad Seg because he’s watching. He doesn’t know what they talk about because, at best, he catches snatches of conversations, which stop as soon as he walks by, about Saporta and how he’s going to bounce back from his time in the hole. 

In Brian’s opinion, two weeks isn’t long enough, especially not with Ross still at St. Jude’s. But he’s not the warden and he hasn’t had to deal with Victoria Asher and whatever legal voodoo she’s performed to get him out. It’s not his job to decide policy. Brian maybe has to repeat that a few times and kick a couple dents into the lockers in the locker room before he’s made peace with that reality. 

Keeping an eye on the way Wentz is staring down the Cobras every time Stumph gets within a ten foot radius of them, on the other hand, is his job. So is making sure that he knows where Bob Bryar is at all times now that Saporta’s back on the Block. Trying to figure out how Iero’s quiet movements to the Wentz camp are tied in to all of this is his job, too. If he can figure out what the fuck’s going on, he can hopefully circumvent it this time. 

“Jimmy’s doesn’t know anything,” Chantal says. She gives him a frown and works the buttons of her uniform down. Brian doesn’t look because he’s going on shift as she’s coming off. And he respects her. He does. “He’d tell me if he knew. He’s only stingy about drug information. He doesn’t want anyone getting hurt.”

Chantal’s a little deluded. She’s a good kid and she’s held up well against all bullshit that comes with being a female CO. He likes her, and he knows she’s done her job as well as she could. Then she fell hard for Euringer and all of her distance and professionalism went out the door. Brian pulled her to the side when she got back from suspension, and warned her, but it was way the fuck too late. He hopes for her sake it’s mutual, because otherwise she’s in for a fucking world of hurt. 

He doesn’t bother her about it, though. He’s got zero space to judge, when the best part of his day is talking to Gerard Way, a.k.a. Prisoner #97W544. That’s beyond fucked up and he knows it, so he doesn’t warn Chantal away anymore. He just nods back and hopes to fuck that she’s not lying. 

Gerard shares a cell with Iero and the two actually get along pretty well. “Frank’s not afraid of me,” Gerard says with a thin smile. “He’s pretty nice actually. Scary smart. Funny. His fiancée brings lasagna from his mom, and he always shares. I mean, he can get kind of annoying, but maybe that’s because he and Bob are still so worried about Ryan Ross.”

“I haven’t heard anything.”

“I wasn’t asking,” Gerard assures him, always more than happy to be the one giving information. Gerard always has something to share. He’s not a snitch about it, and most of the time there’s nothing Brian could do with it, anyway. Even when it is something he could use, Brian finds himself not reporting the information. The second time he didn’t is when he knew he was in trouble with Gerard. But it’s too late, now. Just like it’s too late for Chantal. 

“Okay.”

“Frank’s been trying to keep Bob in check but I don’t know how long that’s going to hold, you know? I don’t really blame him. Saporta’s got that scar on his face but he’s walking around like he owns the prison and Ryan’s still in ICU and everyone knows it.” Gerard shivers. “It’s just unnerving.”

Unnerving is a great word for it. Gerard’s pretty good at that, putting words on things. Brian’s never been good at that. He admires the ability. He finds himself reaching out and taking Gerard’s hand without thinking about it, his tattooed fingers covering the inmate’s pale fist, the rosary clutched inside. “Stay out of it for me, all right?”

“I live with the guy. I live next to Bob. I can’t exactly get out of the crossfire.”

“I know, but just in case,” Brian says. He maybe squeezes Gerard’s hand a little. “I don’t need you getting hurt.”

Gerard stares down at their joined hands for a long moment. He licks his lips and keeps his eyes fixed on them as he asks, “You don’t?”

“No.”

Brian isn’t really prepared when Gerard lifts his eyes to meet his. “Why?”

“Gerard-“

“I never ask and you never ask. We never ask anything, okay, but I’m asking. I’m sorry. You can send me to the hole if you don’t like it, but I’m asking. Why?”

“I couldn’t send you there.”

“It’s your job.”

“I know.” Brian swallows and glances around. The chapel is empty. For all his reputation, Gerard is a minimum security case, so there isn’t a guard at the door. Ray’s got office hours. It’s just them, so he makes himself be honest. “I just couldn’t, all right? I couldn’t, and that’s why I need you to stay out of it. Okay?”

Brian knows it’s wrong to like the surprised “O” shape that Gerard’s mouth makes at that. It’s really fucking wrong to want to kiss him. The whole thing is ten different kinds of wrong, but when Gerard unclenches his fist and turns his hand so that their fingers thread together, the rosary caught between their palms and the cross hanging over onto Brian’s skin, Brian doesn’t fucking care. Not even a little.

Long, talented fingers squeeze his, once. Then again. Then Gerard smiles at him, the bright, earnest one that got Brian into this fucking trouble in the first place. “Okay, I’ll stay out of it. I promise.”

Brian squeezes back. “Thank you.”

Gerard lifts their joined hands and kisses the cross. But his lips press against the skin on the back of Brian’s hand, and the way Gerard’s eyes fix on his face tells him it’s no accident. It makes Brian ache in a way he isn’t equipped to handle. 

“I’ve got to go,” Brian manages finally. “I was on rounds.”

“Duty calls,” Gerard agrees. He doesn’t let go though, and Brian doesn’t either. They’re stuck like that for the longest time, until Brian manages to untangle his fingers from Gerard’s, and walk away. He can’t stop his hand brushing Gerard’s shoulder as he passes. 

Gerard leaning into the touch like a cat shouldn’t steel Brian’s resolve, but it does anyway. It carries him through the next two days when he doesn’t have rounds in the chapel. It helps him focus on Iero’s movements, and Stumph’s awkward advances to the Cobras. It’s enough right up until Bob fucking Bryar appears at his elbow halfway through a shift.

“Schechter,” Bob says, his voice low and even. “You got a minute?”

Brian glances around. Ryland’s on duty with Dan Whitesides. He gives Dan a nod and gestures towards the gym. Dan nods back, and Brian returns his attention to Bob. “Let’s take a walk.”

Bob doesn’t nod. He just shrugs and gestures vaguely for Brian to start walking. They come to a halt in the dim hallway outside the gym. Bob fishes a pack out of a pocket, pulls one out for himself, then holds it out to Brian. It’s a huge gesture. Cigarettes aren’t cheap in Janick, and Brian doesn’t turn him down. 

“What’s up, Bob?”

Bob flicks on his lighter, takes a drag, then asks, “You remember when we were kids?”

Brian lets out a sigh and holds out a hand for Bob’s lighter. He knew this was where the conversation was going. He was just hoping it wouldn’t get there so fast. “Yeah. We were kind of nuts.”

“We were,” Bob agrees. He smiles a little, the way Brian remembers, only minus the lip ring now that they’re older and supposedly saner. “I fucking missed you, Brian. I never blamed you, you know, for leaving, but I did.”

“Same here.” He missed Bob like crazy that first year. But Brian hadn’t even been able to look at him, and how could he stay like that? It was too much, too many memories he didn’t want to hang on to. He’d had to go.

They smoke in silence for the longest time before Bob speaks again. “I’m trying to figure out if this is how you felt when Steineckert killed Sean.”

“Don’t.” Brian doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to have this conversation. He doesn’t want to think about his brother, and he doesn’t want to remember how Bob had handled it. 

“I can’t tell if this is what you felt like.” Bob studies the burning cherry of his cigarette like the hot ash has an answer. “If it’s close, I should’ve killed him slower. I’m sorry.”

The air feels like it’s been sucked out of the room. Brian puffs on his cigarette because it looks less pathetic than gasping for breath. He can’t say anything, though. Nothing he could say could possibly be enough, or right. 

“Ryan died. He came back, but he was fucking dead on the table, Brian, and I just…” Bob squeezes his eyes shut and exhales through his nose before speaking again. “Saporta damn near broke him before I found him, and then he beat him to fucking death and back. You get it, right? You know because you didn’t love Sean the same way I love Ryan, but you get it.”

“I didn’t stop loving my brother just because he’s dead.”

“But you can’t even say his fucking name, anymore. You haven’t been able to since the day he died, and you know it,” Bob says, jabbing at the air in front of Brian’s chest with his cigarette. It sounds like an accusation. Probably because it is. “You haven’t been able to talk to me since I took out Steineckert, either. You can barely look at me; even though you know, and I know, that he had it fucking coming for what he did to Sean. So you know. You fucking know.” 

Brian can’t argue that. He can’t meet Bob’s eyes, either. He just smokes, and stares at the difference between the soft sneakers on Bob’s feet and the steel toed boots on his own. 

“You know I’ve got an ask, Brian.”

Brian swallows hard. “I can’t kill Saporta. I can’t, Bob, I’m sorry. I won’t tell the warden, but you have to understand-”

“I don’t want you to kill Saporta. Just,” Bob flicks ash to the floor. “Take your time.”

Brian stares at him, trying to understand. “Take my time.”

“Yep. No rush. You’ll know when. Just, don’t hurry to save the day for once, and we’ll be even on Sean. Then I’ll just have one favor left, and it won’t even be a big one.” Bob’s blue eyes cut through him. “Give me this, Brian. I need you to let me fucking have it. Please.”

“I’ll know.”

“Yeah, you’ll know. Think you can live with that?”

Probably not. In fact, it’s almost guaranteed that he won’t be able to live with himself by agreeing to this, anymore than he can live with what happened with Steineckert and his brother all those years ago. But he doesn’t have a choice, not really. 

So he sits back and waits. And waits. And waits some more, and the only thing that happens is that Bob shaves off his beard. It throws Brian back in time more than ten years - to the kids they used to be back when Brian had no tattoos, and Bob wore a lip ring Brian had done with a lighter-cauterized needle in the bathroom of a Denny’s at three AM, since they didn’t have anywhere to sleep. It’s jarring, but not really noteworthy.

He doesn’t put the pieces together until later, after dinner but before lockdown. He’s on rounds, headed towards the chapel, when he hears running footsteps. Stumph calls his name, gasping for breath and waving his hands. 

“You need to come now,” Stumph pants, bent over with his hands planted on his knees. His face is red and his eyes are huge. “He’s dying.”

It takes a moment for it to hit Brian but when it does, it’s like an ACME anvil dropped from above. It’s a wonder he’s still standing. It gives him a good excuse for moving slowly, though. Stumph stares at him like he’s grown a second mutant head.

“What are you doing?”

“Going.”

“You could be crawling and moving faster.” 

“You wanna keep that tone, Stumph? We could skip this trip to see whoever you think’s so hard up, and go straight to the hole, if you prefer.”

Stumph says nothing after that. He just leads Brian on a too slow trip to one of the more secluded maintenance closets. They’re supposed to be locked. He knows that Ryland gave Saporta a copy of the key forever ago. He sent in a maintenance request to get the lock changed three months ago, but it hasn’t been done yet. 

“I was supposed to meet him,” Stumph says quietly, staring in at the carnage as Brian opens the door. “I was supposed to meet him here ten minutes ago.”

“Get the fuck out of here, kid.”

“But-“

“Go back to D-Block. Now. I’ll take care of it. You were never here.”

Stumph doesn’t wait to be to be told again. He takes off at another run, leaving Brian in the quiet of the small room. 

Saporta’s wrists are laid open, vertical cuts from wrist to elbow that were gushing blood onto the concrete, but have mostly stopped now, just like his breathing. He’s got a Gillette bayonet hanging limply from one blood-slick hand – a shank made from a shaving razor popped out of the plastic safety case and attached to a pencil, maybe one borrowed from Gerard. 

He looks just like he came to the privacy of the closet to die. The guy was going crazier every day, anyway. Suicide isn’t that unlikely. It’d be perfect if it weren’t for the fact that Bob Bryar is crouched over him, face a grim mask.

“He’s not dead, yet.”

“No,” Bob agrees with a soft sigh. “Almost. Give it another minute.” His voice is soft, empty. It makes Brian’s skin prickle all over and he feels vaguely sick. 

“You should go. I have to radio for help. You can’t be near this when I do.”

“In a second.” Bob stares at Saporta, at his chest as it slows, until it’s not moving at all. He holds his palm a millimeter from Saporta’s parted lips. Brian watches Bob hold that position until he’s satisfied, then rise to stand. 

He nods at Brian and steps over Saporta’s limp body, walking swiftly but calmly back towards the D-Block. Fazzi’s working there today, so Brian doesn’t even need to ask how Bob got out. He waits until Bob’s out of sight before radioing for help. By that point, for Saporta at least, it is way too fucking late. 

When his fellow COs have finished getting Saporta’s body out of the closet, Greta rubs his arm and tells him there’s nothing he could’ve done. She tells him to take a break, get something to drink. “I’ll tell Jay you need a little while.” 

Brian does neither of those things. He makes a beeline for the chapel, blood still on his boots. He hates that, hates it when there’s blood in the grooves that will follow him home. He hates that he’s bringing it to Gerard, who’s trying so hard to get away from the blood. 

Gerard is in the front pew, drawing. He looks up when Brian shuts the door to the chapel behind him. His smile lights up the whole fucking room as Brian walks towards him, until Gerard gets a good look at him. He frowns up at Brian once he’s standing before him. “Are you okay?”

“No. I’m not o-fucking-kay,” Brian grits out. 

Gerard opens his mouth to say something in response, but before the words can form, Brian bends at the waist, takes Gerard’s face in both his hands, and kisses him. Why the hell not? Because if he’s going to do shit he shouldn’t today, he’s going to go all out. This, at least, feels right. This feels sane and perfect and warm. 

Gerard’s lips part in a sigh, inviting him in deeper. Brian sinks into the kiss as Gerard tugs at his uniform with clenched fists. His tongue teases Brian’s, promising things they can’t have, but it’s enough for today. When they break apart, panting, Brian feels like his skin almost fits again.

“Talk to me,” Gerard murmurs, lifting a hand to stroke the side of Brian’s face. Brian can’t help himself leaning into the touch. His fingers have calluses from drawing, but they’re soft otherwise. He wants to sink into them. “It’ll be okay, Schechter, just talk to me.”

“Brian,” he says, dropping down to sit beside Gerard on the uncomfortable wooden bench. He does it in a way that doesn’t force Gerard to move his hand. “Call me Brian, when it’s just you and me.”

“Brian,” Gerard repeats, a hint of a smile peaking out in spite of the seriousness in his eyes. “Brian, talk to me.”

And, God help him, Brian does. He can’t do anything else.


	17. Chapter 17

**Patrick Stumph**

Patrick’s hands are shaking. He can’t tell if it’s from fear, rage, or disgust, but he can’t seem to stop the tremors as he walks back onto the Block. Finding Pete isn’t a conscious move. That’s just where his feet take him, back to the table where he was sitting with Andy and Joe; Frank and a couple members of the Family, including Frank’s cousin Johnny, one table down. 

They had all been so fucking set on him staying, just a little longer. That was pretty typical of Pete, ever clinging and wheedling, but when Frank and fuck, Joe and Andy had joined in, he should’ve known. Never mind that Patrick working his way in good with the Cobras was Frank’s idea in the first place. 

He should’ve figured it out, then. The whole thing was fishy as fuck, the way each of them had found a different way to make him just a little later. Yet Patrick had still been stunned when he got to the rendezvous and found Saporta unconscious and bleeding out all over the floor. 

He’d lost a good minute hypnotized by the gore before Bob had clicked his tongue. Until he did that, Patrick hadn’t even noticed he was standing there. “Go get Officer Schechter.”

Patrick had stared at him, then down at the fucking ribbons of blood flowing out of the open wounds in Saporta’s olive skin, then back up at Bob. “Did you-“

Bob had been wiping his hands off on a paper towel. Then he’d pocketed it and pointed at the door. There was blood under his nails, but his hands were otherwise perfectly clean. “Get Schechter. Don’t get anyone else.”

So Patrick had run to Officer Schechter for help. Schechter had taken his sweet fucking time, and then told him to stay quiet to boot. Now, Patrick knew in his gut, that Saporta was dead with all signs pointing to a suicide. It doesn’t take a fucking genius to put the situation together.

He comes to a halt in front of Pete and balls his fists. He can’t hit him here, in front of everyone. He can’t yell at him, either. But his hands won’t stop shaking, and if he doesn’t do something with them, they’re going to vibrate off or catch Pete in the fucking mouth. 

Pete just smiles his big dumb smile at him, like everything’s fine. Like this is what passes for motherfucking normal on the Decaydance. “Hey Patrick. You got back fast.”

Pain hisses up Patrick’s arms as his fingernails dig into his palms hard enough to threaten breaking the skin. He focuses on that and takes a deep breath before he speaks. “Get up and fucking walk with me, Wentz.”

From the next table over, Frank makes a low whistling noise. “The missus is angry. Best not to ruffle her feathers when she gets like this.”

“Shut the fuck up, Iero,” Patrick growls, not caring at how Johnny begins to rise to his feet. Frank reaches out a hand and Johnny sinks back down. They let it slide, and Patrick barely resists physically dragging Pete out of the common room and towards their cell. No one bothers them because Pete has his fingers in fucking everything and, on top of that, a third of the on-duty D-Block guards are dealing with the Saporta mess, now. 

They get into their cell, and out of the sight of predatory eyes, before Patrick hauls off and punches Pete in the face. Pete makes a satisfyingly pained noise then stumbles back, his back hitting the metal sink. He curses and tries to rub his back and cheekbone at the same time and Patrick feels so much fucking better. That much adrenaline with no outlet is toxic. 

He’d hit Pete again, but he knows he won’t get in a second blow. Pete’s on guard now, coiled and tense even as he stares at Patrick with wide, confused brown eyes. “What the hell?”

“Saporta’s dying, or probably already dead. Bob pulled some hitman voodoo shit and you knew. You knew and you let me walk into that fucking-” Patrick stops and shudders because he doesn’t like to think about dead things. 

Dead things make him think of the family he killed in the accident. This wasn’t the plan. He wasn’t ready for this. He didn’t have time to brace himself. If they’d stuck to the fucking plan, he’d have been prepared for any of it. And he wouldn’t have been alone. 

Pete doesn’t even bother to lie. “He’s had it coming for awhile.” He shrugs and shakes his head, rubbing at his face. “Fuck, did you have to hit me? I’m glad all that time in the gym’s paying off but damn. I thought you’d be glad.” 

“I walked into it,” Patrick repeats, because he can’t get the image of Saporta’s forearms opened liked a gutted fish out of his mind. He can’t stop thinking about how Bob must’ve done it, to get the whole scene to look so real. 

“You had to,” Pete says, finally having the good grace to look sorry. 

“I had to?” Patrick sputters. “You couldn’t have given me a heads up? You couldn’t have told me weeks ago what the fuck you were doing? I thought the point was to _not_ kill him, Pete. I thought that was why I was supposed to win Saporta over in the first place – so we could get him as a group and incapacitate him without killing him. I’d barely fucking started, and all of a sudden I’m hip deep in a closet full of blood.”

Pete shakes his head again. “Yeah, no. You weren’t going to do that plan. That plan would’ve involved you fucking Saporta, and it was a bad, bad plan. I was never going to let that happen.”

Patrick folds his arms over his chest and glares daggers at Pete. “You say that like it’s your choice.”

“See, this is why I didn’t tell you. You don’t seem to get that it is so very fucking much my choice.”

“How do you figure?”

“Because Ryan was mine. Because you _are_ mine,” Pete says, with the kind of vehemence he usually reserves for philosophical debates with Andy about _Star Wars_ , but cut through by an edge of something darker that Patrick rarely sees. “Saporta fucked with my people so what happens to him is up to me. Bryar’s got first blood rights, but the how, the when, the where, the who – I okay it all. Do you get who the fuck I am, Patrick? Do you understand where you are? This isn’t the suburbs. This is the goddamn jungle and I’m the fucking alpha.”

Patrick resists the urge to step back. This is Pete. All the civility is stripped away so that he can see the steel skeleton underneath that makes Pete dangerous and powerful. But it’s still just Pete, and he’s never let Pete push him around if he didn’t want to be pushed. He’s not about to start now. “You should probably piss on my leg while you’re at it; make sure everyone knows which trees are yours. I’m just your bitch, after all.”

“Goddamnit, I didn’t say that.”

“No, you didn’t need to. You don’t trust me. You certainly don’t respect me. What were you even doing, Pete? I know I was just bait, but you could’ve had the decency to tell me what kind of hook I was on.” The prospect shouldn’t be that upsetting. Not after everything he’s seen in the last hour, the last year since he arrived at Janick. It is, though. It makes his lungs burn, and his throat ache, and he has to work to keep his glare furious instead of hurt. 

“I couldn’t let you get hurt.”

Patrick rolls his eyes, hoping that will stop them stinging. “Because where would you be without your pet.”

“Stop it, Christ. You’re not-” Pete breaks off and groans, pulling at his hair. He paces for a moment then stops. “I respect you. I trust you. You’re brilliant, and you’re kind, and you’re all these things that don’t survive in Janick; and yet you’ve hung onto them anyway. I couldn’t let Saporta do to you what he did to Ryan, all right? You think Bryar went crazy? Bryar doesn’t have shit on me when I lose it and Patrick, if something happened to you, if someone hurt you like that, I’d fucking lose my goddamn mind. You had to be believably ignorant, but I couldn’t let that happen. I just- I couldn’t let you get hurt.”

There’s nothing to say to that. The best Patrick can come up with is “You should’ve told me.” The anger’s gone out of it, though. 

“You’re going to go back to a real life one day. You’re going to go back to the real world and have a real life. If you got caught? That’d be gone. Best case, it’d fuck up your parole and the worst case, you could get an accessory charge and add time to your sentence.” Pete crosses the cell to him and takes Patrick’s face in both hands, overly intimate as ever. “I’m supposed to protect you. That includes from yourself.”

“Why?” It’d made sense in the beginning – earning a favor for a guard with a soft spot. But then Pete had just never backed off, or gone away, or let go, or seemed to do anything but care and he’d never asked for anything in return besides company or, occasionally since Father Toro gave him _The Inferno_ , that Patrick read to him. It didn’t mesh with the man everyone, including Pete himself, said Pete was. Why the fuck would someone who could coldly organize what he did, even to someone as disgusting as Saporta, give two shits about a guy like him?

Pete laughs, jagged and raw instead of his usual obnoxious bray. There’s real pain in it. Patrick can barely look at him. “It’s not obvious? I’m not subtle, so I just figured you knew. ”

“I’m clearly not as brilliant as you seem to think, so just lay it out for me.” 

“I love you,” Pete says flatly. He meets Patrick’s eyes but there’s nothing in them. No hope or deceit or agenda. It’s just a statement of fact, like what his shoe size is, or what time breakfast is served. It just is. 

“Pete,” Patrick says but it’s breathless. There’s nothing else coming behind it. All Patrick has is Pete’s name and the overwhelming sensation of being in warm, dark water way over his head. 

Pete just shrugs. “You wanted to know.”

“And that’s why you did this?”

“No. I did this because Iero and Bryar had a better plan than we did, and it was the best way to deal with Saporta once and for all. For pretty much everything else though, that’s why. Jesus, what the hell was I supposed to do? You’re my Patrick.”

Patrick just stares up at him. It’s too fucking much. He doesn’t know what to do. All his fear and hurt and anger and abject horror at what he had seen are still boiling and now this? He doesn’t know what to do with this. So he goes with his first instinct, which is to grab Pete by the front of his shirt and pull him forward. 

He hasn’t been touched with any kind of sexual intent in a fucking age, and Pete thinks he loves him. He really does, and Patrick’s never had that before. He’s pretty sure that’d be dizzying, even without all the extra bullshit. 

Pete lets himself be pulled. He smiles a little, and reaches out to take Patrick’s hips in his hands. It’d be sexual on anyone else, but Pete is always touching him, holding on to him. “You’re my Patrick,” he says again. 

Patrick doesn’t want to hear it. The words have too much weight behind them, so he kisses Pete instead. It seems like a decent plan because Patrick really has tried everything else over the last year, and nothing else has ever shut Pete up. This doesn’t work either, because Pete makes a loud moaning noise when Patrick presses him back into the sink. Patrick is less frustrated by Pete’s manhandling the deeper he sinks into the kiss. Pete’s mouth is hot, and he’s kissing back like he thinks he can escape Janick via Patrick’s tongue. 

Patrick breaks the kiss off, gasping, when Pete’s hands fumble for the fly of his pants. This is a bad idea. It’s the adrenaline, and Gabe fucking Saporta bleeding to death, and a year of being scared all the time and deep gratitude. It’s a mistake.

“I’m up for parole in less than two years, Pete.” Patrick gasps as Pete finds what he’s looking for. Pete’s hand is colder than he was expecting.

“I know,” Pete murmurs into his cheek. He doesn’t stop his hand though, heating up and stroking smoother than should be possible considering that Pete’s hand is dry and the awkward way they’re standing. “You’re going to get it, too.”

“So where the fuck do you think-” Patrick breaks off with a gasp. Pete does something with his thumb over the head of his dick and Patrick can’t breathe at all. 

He sees stars and takes deep gulping breaths trying to bring himself back to reality. He barely manages, and he has to grab at Pete’s shoulders to hold himself up. “Shit, Pete, where do you think this is going?”

“Nowhere,” Pete sighs. “It’s going nowhere, Patrick. But you and me.” He kisses Patrick, slow and smooth instead of the messy, near-violent kiss of earlier. It melts Patrick’s bones as thoroughly as the steady stroke of Pete’s hand on him. 

“You and me?” Patrick pants, trying to focus. His glasses are starting to cloud with the heat of their bodies against the climate control. He’s so close, though. He’s so fucking close.

“We fit. You’re my fucking soulmate, Patrick,” Pete says, like it’s that simple and easy. “And you’re mine even if I never see you again. So.” 

Pete squeezes a little tighter, pumps a little faster, and Patrick is coming all over Pete’s hand. His fingernails dig into the thin fabric as his other hand grabs the back of Pete’s neck and pulls him down into a punishing kiss because he’s not going to cry out. He’s not. 

He whimpers into it and sags against Pete when it’s over, not caring that the bruise he gave Pete earlier is only going to get deeper. They stand like that for a long time, until Patrick feels like the world under his feet has stopped moving.

When he finally pulls away, he straightens his clothes and takes a deep breath. He watches Pete reach behind himself to turn on the faucet and rinse the come off his hand. Patrick waits until he’s done before he asks, “So what?”

“What?”

“You said so. So what?”

Pete blinks at him with wide eyes for a minute, then smiles. It’s a thin, sad smile, but it’s a Pete Wentz smile none the less. “So fuck it. We should take the time we have, you know? I’d rather be with you ‘til you leave than not at all. Life’s a fragile fucking thing and I’m too big of an evil, selfish fuck to not have what I want while I can.”

Patrick knows just how fragile it all is. He saw it. He took it, accidentally, but nonetheless he’s lost people their lives. He’s well aware of how delicate the whole thing is. He just doesn’t know if he can do this. 

He can’t not, either. He sighs and takes Pete’s wet hand, tugging him away from the sink. “You’re not evil.”

“Depends who you talk to.”

“According to me. You’re a selfish fuck,” Patrick agrees. He brushes Pete’s bangs off his forehead, then drags his fingers down Pete’s temple and cheek to rest at the corner of his mouth. “Stubborn, irritating, and your moral compass is, like, demagnetized or something, but you’re not evil.”

Pete doesn’t speak. He presses into the touch and watches Patrick with huge brown eyes. Pete doesn’t look like a man who organized the death of another not an hour ago, who sells drugs and tortures his enemies. He just looks like a guy, maybe the kind of person Patrick would’ve run into at a hardcore show, or in an English seminar. 

He’s just Pete, who also happens to be the most important person in Patrick’s life. Patrick moves his fingers so that they rest over Pete’s lower lip and he sighs. “I think you might be mine, too. Fuck knows what I’m going to do with you.”

Patrick can feel Pete’s lips curling up under his fingertips. “You’ll think of something.”

“This doesn’t mean you’re forgiven,” Patrick says sharply, jerking back as Pete ducks his head to kiss him. “You and Iero and Bryar are all so fucking far from forgiven, Pete, you’re in another galaxy. This doesn’t change that.”

“I’ll work on it,” Pete promises. “I’ll think of something.” 

“I don’t think so,” Patrick retorts but Pete’s pressed tight against him. He’s still hard and Patrick wants to touch, to feel, to be in a place with real beds. He can feel his anger still boiling underneath his skin but this way, the way that involves him sliding his hands under the thin cotton of Pete’s shirt, seems better than hitting him again. 

“Doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying,” Pete kisses him then, even though if a hack shows up now, they could both end up in the hole. Patrick thinks that’s pretty typical of Pete, typical of this place. They both push everything until it changes to fit – be inside Pete’s life or inside the walls and the bars. 

The scary thing is that Patrick thinks he can deal with it, now. He doesn’t mind bending to the one so long as he’s got the other. Besides, Patrick pushes, too. He pushes Pete onto the bunk, pushes his rage out his hands and lips and tongue onto Pete’s skin. 

What he can’t push away is the fact that, way deep down, he’s not sorry he didn’t make it to Gabe Saporta in time to save his life. Instead Patrick focuses on Pete, on sinking into his taste and his feel and his presence until he thinks he can live with it. 

The fact that he can do such a thing at all is when Patrick knows two things. One, Janick has fucked him up beyond repair. And two, and Patrick thinks this one might be more important and a thousand times more disturbing, he loves Pete, too. 


	18. Chapter 18

**George Ross III**

There’s a tube down Ryan’s throat when he wakes up in the hospital. He blinks through the morphine haze and that first time, he thinks that this is the good shit because he’s hallucinating Spencer, who has a beard now in his crazy brain’s vision of him. It’s days before Ryan comes back to himself enough to realize that no, that’s not his mind compensating for how bad it hurts. Spencer is here. Spencer can see him, like this. 

Ryan wants to cry when he realizes that it’s real, Spencer and his new beard. Three of his fingers and two bones in his right hand are broken from where Suarez leaned on it with his knee to hold him down, and he wants to scream when he tries to wave Spencer away. What comes out instead is a garbled choking sound and a few stinging tears.

There are restraints on his wrists made of padded leather holding him down so when he gathers the energy back against the wave of pain, his left handed gesture is pretty ineffectual. He can’t speak either, just moans around the tube in his throat and lets his panic show in his eyes until the hack guarding the door gets a nurse and kicks Spencer out. 

Once Spencer’s gone, the nurse leans over his bed and sooths his hair back from his face. It’s a kindness that Ryan isn’t prepared for, and the drugs have left him so unguarded that he can’t stop himself from crying. The nurse is a woman in her early sixties, and she wipes his tears away with business-like fingers. 

“Blink once for yes, twice for no,” she says simply. “Should I let that young man back in here before the tube comes out?” Ryan blinks twice and she nods. That’s the last thing Ryan remembers for more than a week, besides going in and out of surgery a few times. 

Spencer reappears after Ryan comes off the ventilator. Ryan’s throat still burns every time he even tries to swallow, so he can’t really talk. Even if his throat weren’t an issue, the broken ribs make it hurt to breathe. His left eye is still pretty much swollen shut, and his right is only a little better. Gabe broke his cheekbone, and the pain from the surgery that reset it is fucking dizzying. 

Ryan can see the mess of his own face mirrored back at him in Spencer’s eyes. Taking a chunk out of Gabe was fucking worth it. Hell, more than. He just doesn’t need to see the cost reflected back this way. 

“Father Ray had to call me,” Spencer says. He’s sitting on a chair beside the bed, elbows on his thighs, hands clasped between his knees. 

He’d buzz for a nurse to get Spencer the fuck out of here, but he can’t reach the button. There’s a guard on the door, but the only hack he can even pretend to trust is Schechter so he doesn’t try to call for help. He’s trapped. Big fucking change there. It’d be easier to bear if Spencer was going to beat the shit out of him like everyone else, instead of looking at him with hurt puppy dog eyes. 

“He had to call me and tell me what happened. Ryan, I- Last time I talked to him, he told me that you said you were alright.” Spencer’s voice breaks and he drops his head. “You’re not alright.” 

There’s no arguing with that. Ryan exhales audibly and fixes his gaze on the blankets covering him. They’re much easier to look at than Spencer’s drawn face.

“You shouldn’t be here in the first place, Ryan. You should’ve just given the D.A.’s office what they wanted or let me turn myself in. I told you I would do it but you just- You should’ve let me say something. You didn’t have to end up alone like this.”

“Shut up,” Ryan croaks and fuck, it hurts. It’s like his throat’s being rubbed down with sandpaper and his lungs are in a fucking vice. But he can’t let Spencer keep talking like this. 

Spencer obeys and falls silent for a long time. He just sits there, staring at the restraints. He breathes deep and ragged, the way Ryan remembers from when they were little as a sign that he’s trying not to cry. It didn’t work then and, if the flash of movement Ryan catches out of the corner of his eye of Spencer rubbing at his face is any indication, it doesn’t work now either. 

Ryan drifts. He’s tired and he hurts, his face and head mostly but his ribs attack if he accidentally inhales too hard. The medication they have him on makes him fuzzy, and he floats through a pharmaceutical fog until Spencer speaks again. 

“I heard Officer Cortez talking to a nurse about how they found you when you were still- before you woke up. He made it sound like, I don’t know. Fuck.” Spencer puts a gentle hand on Ryan’s arm. “Is that why you wouldn’t let me see you?”

All Ryan wants is to squirm away from the contact. It feels wrong, that someone other than Bob has their hands on him like this, even if it is Spencer. Spencer knew the person he used to be, inside and out, since they were children. He’s not that person anymore, and he can’t take it. 

When he was being fucked and beaten by Gabe and the Cobras, Ryan had slipped back into the dead place. Everything was safe in the emptiness, where nothing could touch him and nothing mattered. Now he’s feeling again, and most of it’s painful. 

If it were Bob touching him, it would be okay. Bob is fucking safe and familiar. Bob knows everything, has seen everything Ryan has become. He understands and doesn’t care. He picked up the ugly broken bits that fell off, and likes what he found. Loves it even. Ryan’s pretty sure it’s because Bob never knew him before, but Ryan doesn’t care. The relatively clean slate, along with all the deeper, messier sides of the thing between them, makes Bob’s touch more than tolerable. It makes it fucking welcome. 

This, though, makes him want to scream. The feel of Spencer’s skin on his is making his insides boil and he would run if he could. Spencer knows what Ryan was like when he was whole. He’s asking questions, and feeling guilty, and it’s like Ryan can feel all of that through where they touch. It makes Ryan feel even more shattered and disgusting than he knows he is. 

“Water?” Ryan asks, not looking at him.

Mercifully, Spencer lets got of him and goes to get it for him. It gives Ryan a chance to collect himself. Not enough of one though, because Spencer comes back moments later. He’s got a Styrofoam cup full of ice water, complete with one of those bendy straws, in one hand and Ryan’s mouth is suddenly bone dry. 

Spencer patiently holds the straw for Ryan as he drinks. It burns and soothes simultaneously and when he’s done, Spencer sets it down on the small table beside the hospital bed and asks again, “Is that why you wouldn’t see me?”

Ryan tries to lift an eyebrow. It hurts, but shrugging is beyond him; except Spencer doesn’t stop looking at him with that burning, questioning expression. “Leave it.” Ryan croaks finally.

“No. Ryan, do you think I care? You’re like my brother. You’re here because of me. Did you think I wouldn’t… that I don’t…?” Spencer trails off, blinking up at the halogen light. “I’m just so fucking sorry.”

A tear escapes and he brushes it away but not fast enough for Ryan to miss. “Don’t,” Ryan hisses because this is the last thing he wanted. This fucks everything up even more. 

“Don’t tell me ‘don’t.’ It’s been almost four years since I saw you, Ryan. Six months we’re fine. You called, you wrote me back when you got my letters. Then you just disappeared. I moved out here to go to school so I could visit every week. I built my schedule around visiting hours every semester for the last three years but you wouldn’t see me. I thought you hated me. I thought you fucking hated me for you ending up here.” Spencer is crying now. Not just blinking back tears but crying openly like he hasn’t since before they finished grade school. “I thought you were going to die hating me and I just wanted to tell you again that I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Ryan.” 

“Spencer, no. ” Ryan reaches out with his uninjured hand but the restraint stops him six inches up. He chokes back a defeated noise. This isn’t what he was trying to do. The arrest had been his own fault and Spencer had only gone along with it for him. Ryan knew that and all he’d ever wanted was to protect Spencer from this

Ryan tries to draw in a deep breath but his ribs wail at him in protest. It stuns him, disorienting him and making his head spin. He manages to say “I love you,” but the words come out on a sharp, strangled gasp. It makes his throat ache and his chest burn but Spencer sags with relief and it’s worth it. 

Spencer sinks back into the chair and turns his face from Ryan, wiping tears off his face with his palm. “Don’t hide from me again, Ryan. You can’t shut me out anymore.” 

Ryan nods and looks away. The damage is already done. Keeping Spencer away now is pointless. He tries not to think about what getting that back has cost them both as he gropes for the button that’s supposed to deliver more painkillers. It’s fallen off the bed and Ryan has to fight hard against the impulse to curse or huff. His ribs wouldn’t appreciate either. 

Without a word, Spencer rises, finds it, and places it in Ryan’s uninjured hand. Ryan gives Spencer the best smile he can manage with his cheek in agony and his mouth a mess off cuts and scabs. Ryan clicks the button until he feels relief flood him and falls asleep to the sound of Spencer breathing. It feels almost like he’s crashing on the floor of Spencer’s bedroom instead of strapped to a hospital bed. The memory keeps the fear out of drug addled dreams.

Ryan gets shipped back to Janick not long after that, and spends another week in the infirmary. He sleeps the majority of the time, just grateful that he’s not chained to the beds. He’s mostly off the painkillers when Joe Trohman approaches him, gliding up to his bedside on one of Dr. Salpeter’s rolling stools, orange prison-issue orderly scrubs making him look washed out and gaunt. “You look like shit, Ross.”

“Thanks,” Ryan croaks. At the same time, he lifts a splinted middle finger at Joe. 

Joe just grins and spins around on the stool once, still smiling when he comes back around. “So, Pete and Iero got you a get well soon present.”

Ryan is not on enough pain meds to play the bullshit guessing games the Wentz camp is so fucking fond of. He just sighs and droops back against the pillows. 

“Gabe Saporta died last week,” Joe chirps, rolling back away from the bed. “They’ve ruled it a suicide. Fucking tragic. The Iero Family and Pete are running the show now, and half the Aryans have requested transfers to B. Pete thought knowing that might make you feel better.”

What the fuck is he supposed to say to that? The implications are too big, and Ryan’s too weak to handle it. Joe just keeps beaming at him, a little high, but mostly triumph drunk. He remembers that from Gabe and sometimes, back in the beginning, Pete. He doesn’t tend to encourage it.

Joe doesn’t need him to. He rolls back and stands. “Just thought that would perk you up,” he says, turning to leave. But he snaps his fingers, stops and turns back. “Shit. I almost forgot. I’m supposed to tell you Bryar misses you.”

That actually does perk Ryan up. He tries to sit up without thinking, but his ribs scream in protest and he flops back down. His lips are still healing from the way Gabe’s fist drove them into his teeth, and smiling hurts, but he doesn’t try to stop himself. “Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah. So get well soon, kid, all right? The Block’s been lacking color since you went and got yourself torn all to shit.”

Ryan would normally snap back. Joe is one of Pete’s guys and on fucking principle, Ryan’s inclined to strike out. But the guy’s done nothing but give him good news and for the first time in years, Ryan can afford to be generous. 

He gets released into Gen Pop a few days later. Dr. Salpeter changes the dressings on his face and arms, shows him how to adjust the removable cast on his hand and rewraps his ribs before sending him back. 

“Don’t push yourself,” she says as she wraps the bandage tight around his chest. “And if you can’t find someone to help you wrap this back up after you shower, have an officer bring you back here so a nurse can fix it all right?” She snaps her fingers in front of face when his soft “yeah” isn’t sufficient. “I mean it. I’m tired of cleaning you up when you don’t take care of yourself. If you don’t, I will know and I will insist on many tests that require lots of needles and urine samples. We clear?”

She’s spent the better part of the last three years fighting with him – be it over getting a rape kit done, or taking the full course of an antibiotic. Ryan knows he drives her crazy. He fights a smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Damn right, yes ma’am. Difficult stubborn son of a –“ She breaks off and points sharply at the door where a hack is standing guard. “Get out of my ER.”

The slow walk gets Ryan back to D-Block when everyone else is locked in the cafeteria for dinner. Dr. Salpeter knows he doesn’t like to be gawked at unless he’s asked for it. Keeping his release from the infirmary between herself and the officer on duty was a huge favor, because they will stare. Ryan knows what he must look like. No one has let him near a mirror, but he can feel all the aching places on his face. The deep bruises that are probably still purple and green, and his entire left side is still swollen from the broken bones and the surgery. The last thing he wants is for anyone to see him looking worse than he has to.

So Ryan makes a limping beeline for the empty showers. He hasn’t had more than a half-assed sponge bath in almost a month. He’s got the bandages and splints to deal with so he’s going to need a long time. It takes forever to take them off with only his left hand working, but it’s worth it to stand facing the wall under a deluge of hot water. 

The spray burns through old aches and chases away some of the fog Ryan’s been trapped in since the hospital. The soap in the dispensers smells like a high school locker room and Ryan has a flash of hardwood basketball court beneath his back. He sags against the tile with his shoulder, feeling dirty all the way under his skin. 

The injuries stop him from scrubbing himself raw but he does what he can. He doesn’t do much damage before his body stops him with a sharp reminder of what he’s earned himself. The pain is almost enough to knock him off his feet, and Ryan slumps against the tile with his left side again.

Even now, Ryan wouldn’t change what he did. When he’s not so tired or hurting so much, he’s going to roll the feel of Gabe’s blood and flesh between his teeth over in his mind and fucking relish it. Fucker’s dead now but Ryan tore a chunk out of him first, got what he could of his pound of flesh for the years and pieces of soul Gabe arranged to have taken from him. 

Ryan just wishes he could’ve thought of any other way to get his own back, because now he has to deal with the reality. When he gets out of here, which is a far flung goal at the moment with the way he’s feeling, he’s going to go back to his cell. And Bob is going to be there. He’s going to be in an eight by ten box with nothing but Bob’s soft voice and rough hands and his blue, blue eyes that will look right through the disaster zone of Ryan’s face to the hands that did it to him. Ryan just wants to be physically clean before Bob sees the shiny new dirt just under the surface. 

So Ryan loses track of time and just lingers there. He’s wishing that falling asleep standing were an option when he hears the door swing open. He turns his head to catch a glimpse of Frank’s cousin Johnny before the door swings shut again. Ryan curses and fumbles for the faucet to turn off the water and get to his towel before Johnny gets Bob. 

He’s not fast enough. He’s hobbling to his towel and pile of bandages and splints when Bob bursts in. Bob stops cold and, on a play dead impulse that Ryan can’t explain, he freezes too. 

It’s not fucking fair. It’s not fucking fair that Bob looks that good. His beard is shorter and thinner than usual but frames his mouth like the best morphine dream, and his shoulders are squared and strong under the line of his shirt. He watches Bob’s throat work as he swallows and, just like that, Ryan can move again. 

Ryan fixes his eyes on his things and makes his way slowly towards them. He doesn’t want to watch Bob take in all of the damage, unhidden by clothes. His ribs are purple and there is a barely-healed scar from where they had to go in and re-inflate his lung. He doesn’t want to be stuck with the memory of Bob looking at him like this when Ryan remembers how he used to, past all the old scars to something worth seeing. 

The new wounds are blood red flags waving towards the unspoken promise he broke. Switching cells with Gerard had been a commitment in its own way, and he’d agreed to it the moment he’d said yes. It had taken him twenty-four fucking hours to drop to his knees to get his vengeance, less than that after Bob telling him he loved him. The betrayal’s spelled out in contusions and scabs on his cheeks, forehead, lips and eyes. Ryan ducks his head, knowing it won’t hide his face, but needing a little more between them as he fumbles with the towel anyway.

Ryan’s trying to get back into the scrub pants the nurses gave him without falling over when Bob finally speaks. He clears his throat first then says “You know, Johnny and Frank can’t hold the door forever. You should let me help.”

“I’m fine.”

Bob sighs in frustration “You’re not. Stop being stubborn and let me help you so we can get out of here.”

The whole exchange is so fucking normal that Ryan finds himself nodding despite himself. Bob is beside him in a heartbeat, helping him into his pants and then his shirt with a careful, impersonal efficiency. “Right hand?” Bob asks, holding up the brace. Ryan nods and Bob fastens it then pockets the cloth bandages and the metal splints for Ryan’s fingers. He doesn’t touch Ryan again, just hovers at his elbow as they make their way back to their cell and gives Ryan something to think about other than the way the other prisoners’ eyes rake over him. 

Bob empties his pockets onto his bunk and waves at it. “Take it, just until you’re feeling better. You shouldn’t try and climb up to the top bunk with your hand all fucked up.”

“Bob-” Ryan begins, but Bob shakes his head.

“Take it, all right? And sit down before you fall down. I’ve got to go talk to Frank real fast and then I’ll be back.”

He’s gone before Ryan has a chance to answer or argue. He sits on the edge of the bunk, trying to get the splints back on his fingers without screaming. When he’s done, he’s sweating a little. 

Since Bob’s not there to see how fucking right he is, Ryan sinks onto the mattress. The pillow smells like Bob, which shouldn’t make his fucking eyes sting, but does. Bob just left the cell a second ago. He’s being stupid. He’s tired, and he hurts, and lying down, even if it is on a bunk with less give than the hospital beds, has just unraveled him a little, is all. 

Except when Bob comes back and touches him gently on the shoulder, Ryan feels like all his pieces are going to get scattered. So probably it’s more like a lot unraveled. He takes a deep breath before trying to push himself up. He makes it about half way before Bob’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder blade, one of the few parts of his body that doesn’t hate him, and helps him the rest of the way up. 

“We need to get your ribs taped back up,” Bob says. “Can I help you get your shirt off?”

The strength behind Bob’s hand is the main thing holding Ryan up at the moment. His tank’s empty and it’d be easy for Bob to just do it. Right now, Ryan couldn’t try to stop him even if he wanted to. Bob wouldn’t though, he’d never. He’s fucking safe. 

He’s safe and Ryan reminds himself of that fact as he sags forward against Bob’s shoulder. He’s warm and familiar, and Ryan can smell the sweat at the junction of Bob’s neck and shoulder. He nods and doesn’t hide the relief at not having to work the shirt off on his own.

Bob pulls the shirt off of him quickly and delicately, and then grabs the bandage. He sighs and tilts his head to the side. “You going to be able to stay sitting up?”

Ryan prickles. “I’m not a fucking invalid.”

Bob doesn’t so much as blink. “Just asking. We can figure something else out if you can’t.”

That takes the wind right out of his sails. He’d forgotten how fucking annoying Bob could be that way. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” Bob takes in his chest, bites his lip, then sighs. “Yeah, this is going to suck kind of a lot. It’s been a couple years since I’ve done this.”

Ryan doesn’t argue. The merry-go-round of painful shit always comes back around to his ribs lately. He’s just relieved that it’s not a pissed off nurse, or an overly concerned doctor, doing the job. Bob takes fucking forever and by the time he’s done, the only thing Ryan has energy left to do is lie back down.

Bob moves to get up but Ryan catches his wrist with his left hand. It’s instinct, impulse, pure fucking selfishness, but he doesn’t want Bob to leave. And Bob doesn’t make him beg. He just smiles that almost shy smile of his and lies down on his side next to Ryan, somehow finding space for both of them to fit on the narrow bed.

The way Bob touches him undoes Ryan more. Bob places his hand deliberately so that it rests splayed on the undamaged skin over Ryan’s collarbone, his fingers turned away from the mostly faded finger marks on Ryan’s throat. It makes something in Ryan’s chest feel like it’s cracking, and he wishes it wouldn’t hurt like hell to bury his face in Bob’s neck. As it is, he can’t look at Bob as he mumbles a soft apology. 

“For what?”

Ryan shrugs a little, and opens his eyes to meet Bob’s. He’s not hunting for a big apology. He means the question. Ryan’s refused to be sorry for so many things in the short time Bob’s known him, that he can see how that might not be exactly clear.

“I’m sorry that my shit hurt you. Trohman, he said-” Ryan waves his good hand. “I’m sorry for how I had to do it, I guess, that it hurt you. If there’d been any other way, I would’ve done it. You know that, right?” 

Bob’s mouth forms a thin, tight line. He’s fighting the urge to say something, which means Ryan must look even more pathetic than he’d thought. “You don’t think there was one?” Bob asks, instead of whatever he was going to say. 

“Not for me. I had to do it myself, my way, Bob, can’t you get that?” He drops his hand onto Bob’s cheek. He loves Bob’s beard, the way it feels under his fingers. It’s soft and warm from his body. “I fucking had to.”

Ryan can hear Bob swallow audibly. “He almost killed you,” Bob grits out. “He almost fucking murdered you.” His fingers flex on Ryan’s skin, like he wants to dig in, and any doubt Ryan might have had that Bob killed Saporta evaporates into certainty. 

Good. Fuck him. Ryan hopes to hell it was agonizing and took a good, long fucking time. He doesn’t care if that makes him a bad person, because that was the whole point. It was a ‘fuck you’ back. But that was Bob’s, and probably Frank’s too. It wasn’t his.

“I needed to get it myself. I fucking had to, so I did it. I’m not sorry about that. I’m not going to be.”

Bob stares at him until Ryan starts to feel really fucking uncomfortable, but even that’s familiar. He runs his fingers through Bob’s beard and waits for Bob to get it. For some reason, Ryan doesn’t doubt for a second that he will. 

“Do anything that fucking stupid again without talking to me,” Bob says finally, “And I’ll be the one to break you in half, Ross. I’m not fucking around.”

Ryan smiles and it breaks open two of the scabs on his lip. He licks away the blood and doesn’t care. He scoots closer as best he can without jostling anything. “You don’t scare me.”

“Really? Because you scare the shit out of me, Ryan.” He runs his thumb over Ryan’s collarbone as he speaks. The soft touch is a counterpoint to the seriousness of his words. “I let you walk away from me once, but I don’t know if I’m going to be able to let you go again.”

“Not until we get out, anyway.” 

“No. Period. You really think in five years I’m going to love you less than I do now?” Bob frowns and shakes his head. “It’s not happening. You’re family remember?”

The sudden inability to breathe has absolutely nothing to do with his recovering lungs or abused ribcage. It’s kind of a lot, the idea of anything existing outside beyond Spencer and all the things he’s lost and missed. He can’t really wrap his mind around how things would be on the outside with Bob. He’s starting to understand the scary Bob’s talking about.

“Right. I guess we’ll see if you still feel that way in five years,” Ryan says lightly. It does a pretty good job of hiding Ryan’s terror at the realization that in five years, he’s still going to feel this way about Bob. 

“Yeah, we will. You’ll be wrong then, too.”

Ryan licks his lip and swallows hard. He wants to sink into this moment, the quiet warmth of being with Bob. He wishes it were lockdown, or lights out, so that he could relax. The threat of a guard walking past at any moment and dragging them apart doesn’t go away because Ryan’s worn out. The possibility is fighting the relaxation Ryan’s body is begging for. 

The muscles in Ryan’s shoulders twitch and tense at the idea of having to move quickly with his injuries, and Bob frowns at how it must feel under his fingertips. “Everything okay?”

“Fine. Just don’t want to end up in the hole now that I’m finally out of the hospital.”

“Oh, yeah that,” Bob says, rolling his eyes. As if the threat of being thrown naked into that empty tiny concrete room, with its bare bulb and metal bucket, doesn’t scare him as much as everyone else. 

“Yeah. That.”

“Don’t sweat it. Schechter’s working the third shift. He owed me a few favors. I called in the last one after I talked to Frank.”

“Favors,” Ryan repeats. It’s mob talk. Ryan doesn’t zone out when Bob and Frank talk shop, so much as purposefully turn the volume down so that he doesn’t hear anything he shouldn’t. “Do I want to ask?”

“This was nothing big. He just agreed to ignore my cell after lockdown so long as no one sounded like they were getting hurt.”

It’s like a free pass – like cake day at the cafeteria or one of the rare and elusive prison excursions. Ryan isn’t giddy at the prospect because he’s too fucked up to even imagine going there. The idea that he and Bob could, though, if he were healed, makes its presence known with a buzz down his spine. “Tonight?”

“Whenever he’s got nights. Everyone knows you’re recovering today, though. No one’s going to bother us.” Bob says it casually, like that’s not a huge fucking deal, like Ryan doesn’t know how hard peace and privacy of any kind are to come by in Janick. For the first time in years, Ryan’s got the chance at a measure of both. He feels himself unlock a little bit at a time until he’s a loose puddle of humanity under Bob’s arm. “That’s a hell of a favor.”

“It’s not really. And even if it were, it’s worth it.” Bob moves his arm to drape it across Ryan’s waist. “I promised I’d help you rest.”

Ryan flinches at the memory of that promise and how easily he came apart. He doesn’t kid himself into thinking he’s any more together now than he was then, but Bob has a point. He did promise and, unlike everyone else Ryan’s come across since getting arrested, Bob’s followed through on his side of things. 

Bob always follows through on his side of things, and Ryan’s going to try and do the same on his with some fucking trust. Despite himself, his hopes are skipping, five, ten, fifteen years down the line; and putting a little of the faith in Bob, that Bob has always put in him, is the least he can do. 

So Ryan drops his left hand to cover Bob’s on his hip and does his best to let himself rest. He drifts off too fast and deep to be surprised by how easy it is.

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=2nss0ep)

**Author's Note:**

> I restructured this on purpose because this summer I want to try and get up ALL of the Prisonverse and as much of the rest of my bandom as I can. So watch this space! :D


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